“Well, he imagined that in looking at the sun I should be dazzled by its rays.”
“Which means, speaking less metaphorically—?”
“That, in view of the singularities which accompanied my first knowledge of you and led me to the honor of your acquaintance, I might expose myself to the danger, madame, of not retaining my reason and self-possession.”
“And your history refutes this fear in the mind of Monsieur Marie-Gaston?”
“You shall judge.”
And then, without further preamble, he told me a long tale which I need not repeat here; the gist of it is, however, that Monsieur Dorlange is in love with a woman who posed in his imagination for Saint-Ursula; but as this woman appears to be forever lost to him it did not seem to me impossible that in the long run he might transfer his sentiments for her memory to me. When he had finished his tale he asked if I did not think it a victorious answer to the ridiculous fears of our friend.
“Modesty,” I replied, “obliges me to share your security; but they say that in the army shots frequently ricochet and kill their victims.”
“Then you think me capable of the impertinence Marie-Gaston is good enough to suspect in me?”
“I don’t know about its being an impertinence,” I said stiffly, “but if such a fancy came into your mind, I should think you very much to be pitied.”
His answer was vehement.