“And let the race of Cinq-Cygne end?” said the younger brother. “Instead of one unhappy man, would you make two? No, whichever of us must be your brother only, will resign himself to that fate. It is the knowledge that we are no longer poor that has brought us to explain ourselves,” he added, glancing at the marquis. “If I am the one preferred, all this money is my brother’s. If I am rejected, he will give it to me with the title of de Simeuse, for he must then take the name and title of Cinq-Cygne. Whichever way it ends, the loser will have a chance of recovery—but if he feels he must die of grief, he can enter the army and die in battle, not to sadden the happy household.”
“We are true knights of the olden time, worthy of our fathers,” cried the elder. “Speak, Laurence; decide between us.”
“We cannot continue as we are,” said the younger.
“Do not think, Laurence, that self-denial is without its joys,” said the elder.
“My dear loved ones,” said the girl, “I am unable to decide. I love you both as though you were one being—as your mother loved you. God will help us. I cannot choose. Let us put it to chance—but I make one condition.”
“What is it?”
“Whichever one of you becomes my brother must stay with me until I suffer him to leave me. I wish to be sole judge of when to part.”
“Yes, yes,” said the brothers, without explaining to themselves her meaning.
“The first of you to whom Madame d’Hauteserre speaks to-night at table after the Benedicite, shall be my husband. But neither of you must practise fraud or induce her to answer a question.”
“We will play fair,” said the younger, smiling.