“True, Andrée, but not to die alone.”
“Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you know I am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter, required only to have had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in me every tender feeling. It never happens in this world that hearts respond; those whom we choose prefer others.”
Philippe looked at her with astonishment. “What do you mean?” said he.
“Nothing,” replied Andrée, shrinking from a confidence. “I think my brain is wandering; do not attend to my words.”
“But——”
Andrée took his hand. “Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I am come to beg you to conduct me to the convent of St. Denis; but be easy, I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish. Instead of going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to seek memory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator. He is the only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In approaching Him more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if all the rich and great in this world had combined to make life pleasant to me.”
“Still, Andrée, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have not confided to me the cause of your despair!”
“Despair!” said she, with a disdainful air. “No, thank God, I am not despairing; no, a thousand times, no.”
“This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If you reject the word ‘despair,’ I must use that of ‘pique.’”
“Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in the world through pique? Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were to retire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of your determination?”