Hurt by these doubts, and convinced of my omniscience as to the care of a wife, I assured him that I was prepared to fulfill all my duties. Thereupon M. Mairieux softened.
“Let me speak to you now of my little Raymonde,” he said; “she will come to her fiancé with a pure heart, and the treasure, yes, the treasure, of the rarest feeling. You will give her wealth and surroundings very different from her own. But she—how much more will she bring you! You are too young to understand all the perfection that is in her. You must watch over her, watch over yourself, if your union is to be blessed.”
With these words, the last of which rose to the height of solemnity, he completely overthrew the conception that I had formed of our mutual relations. My pride might perhaps have revolted against them, seeing in them chiefly an evidence of paternal partiality sufficiently remarkable in the mouth of my superintendent, if I had not appreciated their essential truth. As it was, I confined my reply to promises whose full extent I did not then perceive.
“Are you sure, at least, that you love her?” went on M. Mairieux.
Was I sure of it! My presence there proved it.
“But she?” he persisted.
“I believe she loves me.”
“Has she told you so?”
“No, she has not told me.”
“How do you know it?”