“Passionately.”
“But social prejudices set you as far apart as if she were living at Pekin and you in Greenland.”
“The will of two lovers can rise victorious over all things,” said Lucien, lowering his eyes.
“You will forget us,” returned the alarmed lover, as Eve’s fair face rose before his mind.
“On the contrary, I have perhaps sacrificed my love to you,” cried Lucien.
“What do you mean?”
“In spite of my love, in spite of the different motives which bid me obtain a secure footing in her house, I have told her that I will never go thither again unless another is made welcome too, a man whose gifts are greater than mine, a man destined for a brilliant future—David Séchard, my brother, my friend. I shall find an answer waiting when I go home. All the aristocrats may have been asked to hear me read my verses this evening, but I shall not go if the answer is negative, and I will never set foot in Mme. de Bargeton’s house again.”
David brushed the tears from his eyes, and wrung Lucien’s hand. The clock struck six.
“Eve must be anxious; good-bye,” Lucien added abruptly.
He hurried away. David stood overcome by the emotion that is only felt to the full at his age, and more especially in such a position as his—the friends were like two young swans with wings unclipped as yet by the experiences of provincial life.