“And have you also followed me to tell me I am wrong—of course I am wrong—I am wrong because I will not submit, as you and Charles do, to ignorant boors like Stofflet and Cathelineau, because—”
“Like Cathelineau! why, Adolphe, you are mad,” said Henri, “why you yourself voted that Cathelineau should be our General.”
“Voted! Why, Henri, what a child you are! Do you call that voting when all was arranged beforehand? You are blind, I tell you. You will vote next, I suppose, that your great General’s valour shall de rewarded with your sister’s hand!”
“My sister’s hand! what is it you are speaking of?”
“Yes, Agatha’s hand! think you that when you make a General of such as him, that his ambition will rest there? if you are content to be lieutenant to a postillion, I presume you will feel yourself honoured by a nearer connexion with him.”
“Denot, you are raving mad! Cathelineau looking for my sister’s hand?”
“Yes, Agatha’s hand, the postillion looking for your sister’s hand; and, Sir, you will find that I am not mad. Before long, Cathelineau will look for Agatha’s hand: her heart he has already,” and without waiting for any further answer, he hurried away.
“He must be raving mad,” said Henri, “unlucky in love, and thwarted in ambition, he is unable to bear his griefs like a man. What a phantasy has jealousy created in his brain But Agatha was right; a man who could speak of her, even in his madness, as he has now spoken, was not worthy of her. Cathelineau! were he ten times lower than a postillion by birth, he would still be twenty times made noble by achievements and by character, and yet I would not wish—but nonsense! he thinks no more of wedding Agatha than I of Diana.”