“I cannot guess enigmas. I entreat you to be more clear.”
Then, slowing raising her hands, she took the hands of the painter and held them; then, as if each word broke her heart, she said:
“Take care, my friend, or you will fall in love with my daughter!”
He withdrew his hands abruptly, and with the vivacity of innocence which combats a shameful accusation, with animated gesture and increasing excitement, he defended himself, accusing her in her turn of having suspected him unjustly.
She let him talk for some time, obstinately incredulous, sure of what she had said. Then she resumed:
“But I do not suspect you, my friend. You were ignorant of what was passing within you, as I was ignorant of it until this morning. You treat me as if I had accused you of wishing to seduce Annette. Oh, no, no! I know how loyal you are, worthy of all esteem and of every confidence. I only beg you, I entreat you to look into the depths of your heart and see whether the affection which, in spite of yourself, you are beginning to have for my daughter, has not a characteristic a little different from simple friendship.”
Now he was offended, and, growing still more excited, he began once more to plead his loyalty, just as he argued all alone in the street.
She waited until he had finished his defense; then, without anger, but without being shaken in her conviction, though frightfully pale, she murmured:
“Olivier, I know very well all that you have just said to me, and I think as you do. But I am sure that I do not deceive myself. Listen, reflect, understand. My daughter resembles me too much, she is too much what I was once when you began to love me, that you should not begin to love her, too.”
“Then,” he exclaimed, “you dare to throw in my face such a thing as that on this simple supposition and ridiculous reasoning: 'He loves me; my daughter resembles me; therefore he will love her'!”