Knowing, as he did, the marchioness's prejudices, her devotion to titles, her dread of any approach to a misalliance, he was convinced she would shut his mouth at the first word by a very decided "no," which she would maintain.

To attempt the thing would be to risk, without a chance of success, his present happiness which he thought immense, for love lives upon its own misery.
"Once repulsed," thought he, "the house is shut against me; and then farewell to happiness, for life will end for me." Upon the other hand, the very rational thought occurred to him that another might see Mademoiselle d'Arlange, love her, and, in consequence, ask for and obtain her.

In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesitating still, he must certainly lose her in the end.

By the commencement of spring, his mind was made up.
One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his steps towards the residence of Madame d'Arlange, having truly need of more bravery than a soldier about to face a battery.

He, like the soldier, whispered to himself, "Victory or death!" The marchioness who had gone out shortly after breakfast had just returned in a terrible rage, and was uttering screams like an eagle.
This was what had taken place.