“Because—but—but—because it would really be too simple.”
“And if that avowal were made, not from simplicity but from delicacy? If I added, and may the shame of such an avowal fall back on those who compel me to make it—if I added sir, that I have loved, that I still love?”
“Oh! some little romance, is it not so?” said Lectoure, carelessly, crossing his leg and playing with the frill of his shirt; “upon my honor, the race of little cousins is an accursed race. But fortunately we know what these ephemeral attachments are; and there is not a school-girl, who, after the holidays, does not return to her convent but with a passion in her little heart.”
“Unfortunately for me,” replied Marguerite, with, a voice as sorrowful and grave as that of the baron was sarcastic and light, “unfortunately, I am no longer a school-girl, sir; and although still young, I have long ago passed the age of childish games and infantine attachments. When I speak to the man who does me the honor to solicit my hand and to offer me his name, of my love for another, he ought to understand that I am speaking of a serious, profound, and eternal love; of one of those passions, in fine, which leave their traces in the heart, and imprint them there for ever.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Lectoure, as if beginning to attach some importance to Marguerite’s confession; “why, this is perfectly pastoral. But let us see! is it a young man whom one can receive at one’s house?”
“Oh! sir,” cried Marguerite, catching at the hope which these words seemed to inspire: “oh! believe me, he is the most estimable being, the most devoted soul——”
“Why, I am not asking you to tell me this—I was not speaking of the qualities of his heart—he has all these, of course, that’s perfectly understood. I ask you whether he is noble? if he is of good race? in short, whether a woman of quality could acknowledge him, and that without degrading her husband?”
“His father, whom he lost when very young, and who was my father’s friend from infancy, was a counsellor at the Court of Rennes.”
“Nobility of the bar!” exclaimed Lectoure, dropping his nether lip with a contemptuous shrug; “I would rather it were otherwise—is he a knight of Malta, at least?”
“He was educated for a military life.”