'You call me boy, who are but yourself a girl.'
'A girl? true; but a woman in experience. We begin life early in this lively city of Paris, my dear M. Blane. Can you hope to fix such a heart as that of the Countess?'
'I dare hope anything,' said I, as all Clara's beauty and fascination came before me.
'Is it worth fixing, a heart that is full of vanity, and finds no charm in religion, or in virtue? You cannot raise this woman to the rank even of a citizen's wife if you married her.'
'Married her!' I reiterated; 'by my faith, mademoiselle,' I added, after a long pause of perplexity, 'you are a bold little chit to speak thus of the Countess—'
'Of the wretched mistress of Louis XIII.!' said Nicola, with a gesture of contempt.
'Marriage was never thought of, by me, at least; on my honour, I assure you, Nicola.'
''Tis well,' she replied, with singular dignity; 'for by that act you would lower yourself for ever, and adopt the stigma of her shame, and of her crimes.'
'Crimes! oh, mademoiselle, whither is your energy carrying you?'
'Crimes, or sins, you would soon learn to despise her, while your own purity would render you an object of hate; your youth, as contrasted with her riper years, an object of intolerant jealousy. Avoid her, M. Blane, and love one who is young, beautiful, and worthy of you.'