“As I have never read a romance, I scarcely know what that is.”
“A hero of romance, Réné,” said Sophie, smiling at the experimental lesson in literature she was trying to give me, “is a man who loves without hope.”
“That is good. Then am I a hero of romance. By the bye, what are these heroes supposed to do?”
“Everything impossible, in order to touch the heart of the woman they vainly love.”
“Then I am ready to do so; but, if commanded by you, I should know not impossibility.”
“Do not put your life in danger, Réné,” said Sophie. “Sighing for that would not benefit either of us.”
Now it was her turn to stop, and, having turned the corner of the road, she pointed out to me my uncle’s house under a different aspect, but still how beautiful!
“You just now asked me, Réné, if that house, in company with a man whom I loved, would not satisfy my ambition? Well, Réné, in my turn, I adjure you, in the name of that friendship that I have avowed towards you, wish for nothing more than that calm and peaceful existence that Providence has placed in your way. Follow the example of your uncle, who, for eighty years, has lived in peace with himself and with all mankind, without seeking to better his condition, and without ever wishing for a larger house, or a greater extent of land. In fact, this forest before us—is it not his? Do not its trees give him shelter? Do not the birds which inhabit it sing for his gratification, and do not the animals that make it their home serve for his food? In name, it belongs to the King; but, in reality, it is his. Réné, find a woman who loves you; that, I am sure, will not be difficult. My father tells me that you are one of the best carpenters that he knows. Ask the consent of your uncle—he will not refuse it; and live, as he has done, on the little spot where the happiest years of your life have passed away.”
In my turn, I shook my head.
“You will not?” said Sophie. “What, then, do you intend to do?”