“Tell me, sir,” I said to your father, wiping away my tears, “do you believe that I love your son?”
“Yes,” said M. Duval.
“With a disinterested love?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, the forgiveness of my life?”
“Implicitly.”
“Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, and I swear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have ever had, will make me strong against my love, and that within a week your son will be once more at your side, perhaps unhappy for a time, but cured forever.”
“You are a noble child,” replied your father, kissing me on the forehead, “and you are making an attempt for which God will reward you; but I greatly fear that you will have no influence upon my son.”
“Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me.”
I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an insurmountable barrier.