Educated in a Parisian lyceum, his teachers sometimes had occasion to complain of his want of application.
“If your professors are not satisfied with you,” said his mother, “you shall not accompany me to Escorval on the coming of your vacation, and you will not see your little friend.”
And this simple threat was always sufficient to make the school-boy resume his studies with redoubled diligence.
So each year, as it passed, strengthened the grande passion which preserved Maurice from the restlessness and the errors of adolescence.
The two children were equally timid and artless, and equally infatuated with each other.
Long walks in the twilight under the eyes of their parents, a glance that revealed their delight at meeting each other, flowers exchanged between them—which were religiously preserved—such were their simple pleasures.
But that magical and sublime word, love—so sweet to utter, and so sweet to hear—had never once dropped from their lips.
The audacity of Maurice had never gone beyond a furtive pressure of the hand.
The parents could not be ignorant of this mutual affection; and if they pretended to shut their eyes, it was only because it did not displease them nor disturb their plans.
M. and Mme. d’Escorval saw no objection to their son’s marriage with a young girl whose nobility of character they appreciated, and who was as beautiful as she was good. That she was the richest heiress in all the country round about was naturally no objection.