When they were gone, M. Georges still stood respectfully before Mme. de Beaudrillart.
“Madame,” he said, solemnly, “I am aware that what I have to say will sound presumptuous, and I could not have ventured upon it but for your daughter’s fancy that you would all suffer from this misfortune of Monsieur Léon’s. My position has improved; I have a small estate, a yearly income, and perhaps a reasonable hope of advancement. Such as it is, madame, may I dare to lay it at Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart’s feet?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart turned her dull eyes upon him. She had lost her sense of wonder.
“You wish to marry Claire?”
“Oh, no, madame!” cried M. Georges, in alarm. “I speak of Mademoiselle Félicie. At least I would promise her a life’s devotion, and a most earnest endeavour to make up to her for what she would renounce.”
“Félicie!” exclaimed her mother. “But she has consecrated her life to good works.”
“Believe me, madame, I should rejoice in aiding her.”
“I do not know—it is all like a mist in my brain. Claire—what does Claire say?”
“She gave me her approval, madame,” returned M. Georges in eager good faith.
Mme. de Beaudrillart sighed, and passed her hand across her forehead.