"Thank you, my dear Paul. I have only one request to make, and that is, that you will give me your attention. First, I must recall the past. In tropical countries, girls marry young. You were born when Mme. Frager was only fifteen years old. For eighteen years, she devoted her whole life to you. You were eighteen years old when I first saw your mother. I was deeply interested in her from the first moment. Although thirty-three years old, she barely appeared twenty-five. I was so fortunate as to please her. The noble woman had brought you to manhood. Her task might be considered as accomplished. I begged for her hand, and she made me the happiest of mortals by granting my request. Ever since that time, you have been opposed to me. The time has now come to put an end to this misunderstanding. Before my marriage, I confess, my life was not what it should have been. As you grow older, dear Paul, you will learn that one of the first virtues in this world is charity. I confessed my faults to your mother. She, alone, had the right to condemn me. She forgave me, and I had the inestimable happiness of giving my name to the one I love and reverence more than all else on earth. I regret to awaken these painful memories, but I am coming to our unfortunate disagreement; you have never forgiven me for marrying your mother. I was never angry at you. Children are always more or less selfish in their affections. You never reflected that, after having consecrated the best years of her life to you, your mother had the right to think at last of her own happiness. In short, you were offended at her marriage with me, and separated yourself entirely from us, leaving your mother, who loved you so tenderly, turning your back on me, who was anxious to give you the affection of an older brother. But, instead of being angry, we only respected you the more. Such pride shows that you are warm-hearted and impulsive. You will understand that, under ordinary circumstances, I should never have intruded upon you; but the cause of my journey here was the anxiety aroused by your last few letters to your mother."
Paul was listening with the greatest attention. Claude Sirvin was speaking with all his heart in his words, and Paul could not help being touched by them. The artist talked, as he painted, with his whole soul. His voice was sometimes tender and sweet, then it rose to firmness, according to the thought he was expressing. This eloquence was what made him so dangerously fascinating to women.
He continued: "Now we come to the cause of my visit. I have spoken of our anxiety. For some time past, your letters have been feverish, glowing, nervous, and it is easy to guess that you are in love at last."
Paul started visibly, blushed, and then grew pale, trembling violently. Claude gently took his hand:
"Do not say anything. Wait till I have finished. You love a young girl. Is it not so? I was sure of it, Paul. Love, with you, is not merely a violent caprice, as it is with some. Your heart belongs to her, once and for all; and, that frightens you, for you say to yourself: 'I can not marry. I am poor.' Have I not guessed aright?"
"Ah, sir," replied Paul, sadly, "every one of your words is truth. I love a young girl, but I can not describe her—you would think me a fool; and, then, there are no words strong enough to do her justice. It is absurd, I know, but you understand. I met her in Paris last Winter, at a party. And, to think that at first I did not notice her! She went to the piano, and played some sonata or nocturne, with her soul shining bright in her glorious eyes. I felt at once that I belonged no longer to myself, but to that young girl, so calm, so unconscious." Paul was completely carried away by the remembrance of that evening. He was again under its magic spell. He continued: "After that first interview, I was introduced to her, and seized every opportunity to be with her. Now you know the reason of my burying myself at Canet for the Winter. It is because she is staying hardly a mile away. You have been talking to me in a way that has opened my heart, and I have replied with frankness and truth."
"Thank you. That is what I expected. But, now, why are you not happy in your love? There are two reasons; either the young lady is poor, and you dread to offer her your small fortune, knowing that a life of straightened circumstances is often worse than absolute poverty; or else she is rich, and you are too proud to have her think you can be actuated by interested motives.
"Ah! that is it? You see that our affection for you has caused us to guess right once more. Now, what is the use of a father and mother, except to smoothe away difficulties? What is mine is your mother's. Do not deny it. That is law, you know. Mme. Frager was poor when she gave me her hand, and I had the happiness of presenting her with the wealth she was so fitted to adorn. Let me add that every year a small sum has been set aside from our abundance, for your marriage-portion. It now amounts to a little more than three hundred thousand francs. You know that I can make all the money I need with my brush; so it is a mere trifle for me. You can, you must, accept it as it is offered. Now, you can go to your loved one, and say: 'I am no longer poor. I love you. Will you accept my love?'"
Paul was deeply moved. This man, who had been showing him such thoughtful tenderness, he had bitterly hated for four years, for Claude was right; he had never forgiven him for coming between his mother and himself. He could not speak. Tears of gratitude and joy stood in his eyes. Claude understood his emotion, and gently pressed his hand.