Tremorel began to tell her the motives which prompted his conduct.
He could not live forever at Valfeuillu. What could he, with his
habits and tastes, do with a few thousand crowns a year? He was
thirty; he must, now or never, think of the future. M. Courtois
would give his daughter a million, and at his death there would be
a great deal more. Should he let this chance slip? He cared little
for Laurence, it was the dowry he wanted. He took no pains to
conceal his meanness; he rather gloried in it, speaking of the
marriage as simply a bargain, in which he gave his name and title
in exchange for riches. Bertha stopped him with a look full of
contempt.
"Spare yourself," said she. "You love Laurence."
He would have protested; he really disliked her.
"Enough," resumed Bertha. "Another woman would have reproached you;
I simply tell you that this marriage shall not be; I do not wish it.
Believe me, give it up frankly, don't force me to act."
She retired, shutting the door violently; Hector was furious.
"How she treats me!" said he to himself. "Just as a queen would
speak to a serf. Ah, she don't want me to marry Laurence!" His
coolness returned, and with it serious reflections.
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