"That is not the question at all. Have not I and my daughter always striven to prove that we regarded you as a friend, and not as a servant?"
"Then I do not understand the cause of your reproaches."
"And that is very unfortunate, for if you had been more clear-sighted, you would long since have discovered what has happened."
"Good Heavens! what has happened, monsieur?"
"Sabine loves your nephew."
"Mademoiselle!"
"She loves him, I tell you."
"Mademoiselle loves Onésime! Monsieur cannot be in earnest. It is impossible."
"Impossible, and why?"
"Because the poor boy is as timid as a girl; because he is not at all good-looking; because he sees very badly, a defect that makes him commit twenty blunders a day, at which mademoiselle is not unfrequently the first to laugh. He does not resemble a hero of romance in the least. Oh, no, monsieur, you need feel no anxiety on that score. Mademoiselle has always been very kind and considerate to Onésime, because he is my nephew, and she pitied him, but—"