“Cerise is a woman now, my cousin. Her girlhood is past, and she has arrived at an age when every woman should think of establishing herself in life. Pardon! that bouquet is in your way; put it down yonder in the window-sill.”
The Abbé rose and placed the flowers in the open window, whence a light air from without wafted their sweet and heavy perfume into the apartment.
When he reseated himself the Marquise had relapsed into silence. She was thinking deeply, with her eyes fixed on the dead musketeer in the picture.
The Abbé spoke first. He began in a low tone of emotion, that, if fictitious, was admirably assumed.
“It is not for me, perhaps, madame, to give an opinion on such matters as concern the affections. For me, the churchman, the celibate, the man of the world, whose whole utility to those he loves depends on subjection of his love at any cost—at any sacrifice; who must trample his feelings under foot, lest they rise and vanquish him, putting him to torture, punishment, and shame. My cousin, have not I seemed to you a man of marble rather than a creature of flesh and blood?”
The Marquise opened her black eyes wide. He had succeeded at least in rousing her attention, and continued in the same low, hurried voice.
“Can you not make allowance for a position so constrained and unnatural as mine? Can you not comprehend a devotion that exists out of, and apart from self? Is not the hideous Satyr peering from behind his tree at the nymph whose beauty awes him from approach, an object more touching, more to be respected than vain Narcissus languishing, after all, but for the mere reflection of himself? Is not that a true and faithful worship which seeks only the elevation of its idol, though its own crushed body may be exacted to raise the pedestal, if but by half a foot? Do you believe—I ask you, my cousin, in the utmost truth and sincerity—do you believe there breathes a man on earth so completely consecrated to your interests as myself?”
“You have always been a kind counsellor—and—and—an affectionate kinsman,” answered the Marquise, a little confused; adding, with an air of frankness that became her well—“Come! Abbé, you are a good friend, neither more nor less, staunch, honest, constant. You always have been, you always will be. Is it not so?”
His self-command was perfect. His face betrayed neither disappointment, vexation, nor wounded pride. His voice retained just so much of tremor as was compatible with the warm regard of friendship, yet not too little to convey the deeper interest of love. He did not approach his cousin by an inch. He sat back in the arm-chair, outwardly composed and tranquil, yet he made it appear that he was pleading a subject of vital importance both to her welfare and his own.
“Pass over me, madame!” he exclaimed, throwing both his white hands up with a conclusive gesture. “Walk over my body without scruple if it will keep you dry-shod. Why am I here; nay, why do I exist at all but to serve you—and yours? Nevertheless it is not now a question of the daughter’s destiny—that will arrive in course of time—it is of the mother I would speak. For the mother I would plead, even against myself. What temptation is there in the world like ambition? What has earth to offer compared to its promises? The draught of love may be, nay, I feel too keenly must be, very sweet, but what bitter drops are mingled in the cup! Surely I know it; but what matters its taste to me? the Abbé! the priest! Marquise, you have a future before you the proudest woman in Europe might envy. That fair hand might hold a sceptre, that sweet brow be encircled by a crown. Bah! they are but baubles, of course,” continued the Abbé, relapsing without a moment’s warning into his usual tone; “the one would make your arm ache and the other your head; nevertheless, my cousin, you could endure these inconveniences without complaint, perhaps even with patience and resignation to your fate?”