“But that is not all. In this you may be right—I know not; at all events, you are a fitter judge than I! But are you wise in encouraging so very strongly his fancy for Melanie d’Argenson?”
“I’ faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think: the boy loves her!”
“I see that, Louis, clearly; and you encourage it.”
“And wherefore should I not? She is a good girl—as good as she is beautiful!”
“She is an angel!”
“And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom friend.”
“And now a saint in heaven!”
“Well, what more? She is as noble as a De Rohan or a Montmorency; she is an heiress with superb estates adjoining our own lands of St. Renan; she is, like our Raoul, an only child; and what is the most of all, I think, although it is not the mode in this dear France of ours to attach much weight to that, it is no made-up match, no cradle-plighting between babes—to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking of hearts—but a genuine, natural, mutual affection between two young, sincere, innocent, artless persons; and a splendid couple they will make. What can you see to alarm you in that prospect?”
“Her father.”
“The sieur d’Argenson! Well, I confess, he is not a very charming person; but we all have our own faults or weaknesses: and, after all, it is not he whom Raoul is about to marry.”