"M. Olivier," said Herminie, "Ernestine is ready to listen to you. You know my friendship for her. You know, too, how highly I esteem you, so I trust my presence will prove no restraint."
"I particularly desire your presence, Mlle. Herminie, as I shall, perhaps, find it necessary to appeal to your memory in support of some of my statements," replied Olivier. Then, turning to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, he continued, without making any attempt to conceal his emotion:
"Mademoiselle, permit me to say, first of all, that I must have perfect confidence in the rectitude of my intentions to venture upon the rather peculiar step I am about to take."
"I am certain, in advance, M. Olivier, that this step is worthy of you, of me, and of the friend that is listening to us."
"I think so, too, mademoiselle, so I am going to speak to you in all sincerity, for you may recollect that once before you expressed yourself as grateful to me for my frankness."
"I was certainly deeply touched by it, as Herminie will tell you, M. Olivier."
"Mlle. Herminie can also testify to the deep interest you inspired in my heart, mademoiselle, I will not say from the time of the charity dance," added Olivier, with a faint smile, "but rather from the time of the conversation I had with you that evening."
"It is perfectly true, my dear Ernestine," said Herminie, "that, after your departure, M. Olivier seemed to be deeply touched by the strange mixture of melancholy, frankness, and originality, that he had noticed in your conversation, and his interest seemed to be greatly increased when I told him, without committing any breach of confidence, I trust, that I felt sure your life was far from happy."
"The truth is never a breach of confidence, my dear Herminie. Though one ought, of course, to conceal one's unhappiness from the indifferent, one should at least have the consolation of confessing it to one's friends."
"Then you may be able to understand, mademoiselle," said Olivier, "that, by reason of the very peculiar circumstances of our first interview, there sprang up in my heart, not one of those sudden and violent emotions one sometimes experiences,—I should be uttering an untruth if I asserted this,—but an emotion full of sweetness and charm, together with a lively solicitude for you, a solicitude which memory and reflection rendered more and more keen. Such were my feelings, mademoiselle, when you, at the risk of your own life, saved the uncle whom I love as a father from a horrible death. Then, gratitude and the admiration which so noble an act richly merited were added to the sentiments I already entertained for you, but I should, probably, never have dared to give expression to these feelings had it not been for the unexpected good fortune that has befallen me."