“Oh, could it be? Oh, would it were! Then I thy equal—Oh, say not that! No; do not torture me.”
“I understand it now,—my love is not returned,—you do not care for me.”
“Love thee! Indeed I love thee well—love thee, as boy never loved before—love thee, as I ne’er can love again!”
“Oh, Marmaduke! dear Marmaduke! you cause me joy. My Marmaduke, I’ll call again the priest.”
“Thy father!—No, no! I dare not meet thy father!”
“Dread not my father’s ire. He loves his child; his child loves thee. Ah, thou art all mine own, for all that thou hast urged is but a paper wall.”
“Dear Sauterelle, I must admit I love thee well. To be thine own—oh, joy! But no; it cannot be. I have no wealth, no heritage at all. A wife is far from me.”
“Wealth? What is wealth to me? Wealth is an idle word—non-entity—a gin—a snare—a clap-trap. How should we live? Let no such thoughts occur to thee. Though wealth is nought, ’tis true, my father hath it, and thou couldst have enough to live as princes live.”
“‘Alas,’ you said, ‘perhaps my father lives no more.’”