"'MAD!' SAID OLIVER, 'WHY AM I MAD?'"
"Mad!" said Oliver. "Why am I mad? Were I a beggar and she a princess I might still love her. Were I now as I was twelve months ago, poor, ignorant, dull, a witless, idle sot, satisfied to sit the day through on the bench in front of the inn yonder, I might still love her! Were we living in poverty as we were then—you and I—dwelling in that little stone hut, feeding upon stewed cabbage and onions, I might still love Céleste de Flourens! Love," cried Oliver—"love is universal; it is limitless; it is the right of every man, and no one can take it from him!"
Madame Munier listened; she thought that she had never heard any one talk so beautifully as Oliver. It put the matter in a new light.
"But I am no longer as I was then," continued Oliver. "I have seen much; I have passed through much; I have lived in Paris. But all would be of no importance were it not for another thing. Listen, mother! We are rich, you and I. We are the richest people in France—excepting one other; yes, the richest people in France! You think me crazy to love Céleste de Flourens! I tell you, I swear to you, I could to-morrow buy Flourens from one end to the other—the town, the château, and all. You do not believe me? Very well, you shall see! But as for this love of mine, it is not so hopeless nor so mad as you think. To-morrow you shall go in my coach, with my servant Henri, down to the château yonder."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," interrupted Madame Munier, sharply.
Oliver only smiled; he did not answer. A habit he had caught from his master during the last year was to contradict nobody. "To-morrow you shall go down to the château in my coach, with my servant Henri, and then you shall see how complaisant the marquis will be."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Madame Munier again. "I will not go down to the château."
Still Oliver did not seem to hear her. Going to the table, he chose a key, and unlocking the iron box, brought forth from it a curious old silver snuffbox, handsomely chased and enamelled with figures and flowers. "Do you see this box?" said he, holding it up between his thumb and finger.
"Yes," said Madame Munier, "I see it; but I will not go to the château."
"It is only a snuffbox," said Oliver. "It is a small thing; but what then? Within it is a charm—a key with which I hope to unlock the portals of a new world to us. It shall give us the entrée to the château."