“Emilie, you cannot deceive me,” cried her mother; “you cannot pretend that it is simply your want of esteem for M. de Brisac which renders you thus obstinately averse to the match. You are in love with another person.”
“Not in love,” said Emilie, in a faltering voice.
“You cannot deceive me, Emilie—remember all you said to me about the stranger who was our fellow prisoner at the Abbaye. You cannot deny this, Emilie.”
“Nor do I, dear mamma,” said Emilie. “I cannot deceive you, indeed I would not; and the best proof that I do not wish to deceive you—that I never attempted it—is, that I told you all I thought and felt about that stranger. I told you that his honourable, brave, and generous conduct towards us, when we were in distress, made an impression upon my heart—that I preferred him to any person I had ever seen—and I told you, my dear mamma, that—”
“You told me too much,” interrupted Mad. de Coulanges; “more than I wished to hear—more than I will have repeated, Emilie. This is romance and nonsense. The man, whoever he was—and Heaven knows who he was!—behaved very well, and was a very agreeable person: but what then? are you ever likely to see him again? Do you even know his birth—his name—his country—or any thing about him, but that he was brave and generous?—So are fifty other men, five hundred, five thousand, five million, I hope. But is this any reason that you should refuse to marry M. de Brisac? Henry the Fourth was brave and generous two hundred years ago. That is as much to the purpose. You have as much chance of establishing yourself, if you wait for Henry the Fourth to come to life again, as if you wait for this nameless nobody of a hero—who is perhaps married, after all—who knows!—Really, Emilie, this is too absurd!”
“But, dear mamma, I cannot marry one man and love another—love I did not quite mean to say. But whilst I prefer another, I cannot, in honour, marry M. de Brisac.”
“Honour!—Love!—But in France, in my time, who ever heard of a young lady’s being in love before she was married? You astonish, you frighten, you shock me, child! Recollect yourself, Emilie! Misfortune may have deprived you of the vast possessions to which you are heiress; but do not, therefore, degrade yourself and me by forgetting your principles, and all that the representative of the house of Coulanges ought to remember. And as for myself—have I no claim upon your affections, Emilie?—have not I been a fond mother?”
“Oh, yes!” said Emilie, melting into tears. “Of your kindness I think more than of any thing else!—more than of the whole house of Coulanges!”
“Do not let me see you in tears, child!” said Mad. de Coulanges, moved by Emilie’s grief. “Your tears hurt my nerves more even than Mrs. Somers’ grossièreté. You must blame Mrs. Somers, not me, for all this—her temper drives me to it—I cannot live with her. We have no alternative. Emilie, my sweet child! make me happy!—I am miserable in this house. Hitherto you have ever been the best of daughters, and you shall find me the most indulgent of mothers. One whole month I will give you to change your mind, and recollect your duty. At the end of that time, I must see you Mad. de Brisac, and in a house of your own.—In the house of Mrs. Somers I will not, I cannot longer remain.”
Poor Emilie was glad of the reprieve of one month. She retired from her mother’s presence in silent anguish, and hastened to her own apartment, that she might give way to her grief. There she found Mrs. Somers waiting for her, seated in an arm-chair, with an open letter in her hand.