‘If I quarrelled with her less, I liked her less,’ answered Berenger—who, since the act of separation, had not been so guarded in his demeanour, and began to give way to his natural frankness.
‘Indeed! Diane would be less gratified than I ought to be. And why, may I ask?’
‘Diane was more caressing, but she had no truth.’
‘Truth! that was what feu M. le Baron ever talked of; what Huguenots weary one with.’
‘And the only thing worth seeking, the real pearl,’ said Berenger, ‘without which all else is worthless.’
‘Ah!’ she said, ‘who would have thought that soft, youthful face could be so severe! You would never forgive a deceit?’
‘Never,’ he said, with the crystal hardness of youth; ‘or rather I might forgive; I could never esteem.’
‘What a bare, rude world yours must be,’ she said, shivering. ‘And no weak ones in it! Only the strong can dare to be true.’
‘Truth is strength!’ said Berenger. ‘For example: I see yonder a face without bodily strength, perhaps, but with perfect candour.’
‘Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine’s, no doubt—from the depths of Languedoc, and dressed like a fright.’