“You think he has?”
“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?”
“Indeed! with whom—with a child seven years old?”
“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes,—at once saucy and languishing.”
“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”
“Nothing—I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.”
“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself.”
“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”
“You will be wise to do so.”
“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned.”