"Yes—I was bored—a day of spleen. Such days are very bad for me."
"Was the duchess to come?"
"The duchess? No. I don't know her."
"Well, if I were in your place, I would never receive in my house, at my table, a married man whose wife I did not meet in society. You complain of being abandoned; why do you abandon yourself? When one is without reproach, one must keep oneself above suspicion. Do I offend you?"
"No, no, scold me, Minerva. I like your morality. It is frank and straightforward; it doesn't squint like Jenkins'. As I told you, I need some one to guide me."
She held before him the sketch she had just finished.
"See! there's the friend of whom I spoke to you. A deep, sure affection which I was foolish enough to throw away, like the wasteful idiot I am. I always used to invoke her memory in moments of perplexity, when there was some question to be decided or some sacrifice to be made. I would say to myself: 'What will she think about it?' as we pause in our work to think of some great man, of one of our masters. You must fill that place for me. Will you?"
Paul did not answer. He was looking at Aline's portrait. It was she, it was she to the life, her regular profile, her kindly, laughing mouth, and the long curl caressing the slender neck. Ah! all the Ducs de Mora on earth might come now. Felicia no longer existed for him.
Poor Felicia, a creature endowed with superior powers, was much like those sorceresses who weave and ravel the destinies of others without the power to accomplish anything for their own happiness.
"Will you give me this sketch?" he said almost inaudibly, in a voice that trembled with emotion.