“But we do not do that,” exclaimed Eugene. “Oh! you are rashly mistaken. A Frenchman does not marry to obtain gold. It is to protect his wife. Some money is necessary to be assured to her; it is rarely enough to maintain a carriage and a table. All women like the arrangement—otherwise, why would mothers marry their daughters if they themselves have been unhappy?”
“I tell you what I’ll do,” said Mr. Manning with prodigious gravity. “As I have told you, I don’t like to be the first to launch this newfangled thing in America. I believe I would be mobbed if I started to go down town among people who knew I had promised my baby girl in marriage to a strange boy that I had only seen once in my life; but you go round and visit some of the other business men of this city, and if you can get them to give their consent to let this custom have a fair trial here, I will sign a paper that will commit my daughter to an engagement to you.”
Eugene’s face fell. “There will not be time,” he said in a pained voice, “as we leave to-morrow. I hoped that a writing could be made out to-day.”
“I am not prepared to go that length,” said Mr. Manning decidedly. “You see you have sprung this thing on me. You will be coming to America again—leave it till then, and we’ll talk it over. Hello, boy, you’re not going to faint, are you?”
Every vestige of color had left Eugene’s face. He was not able to analyze his own feelings, but deep down in his heart there was a profound and blank regret that he was to leave America. He had hoped that a definite agreement could be made with the father of little Virgie, which would give an excuse for a return to the city where he had lately experienced the only happy days of his life. If there was to be no agreement, there could be no return.
“No, I never faint,” he said; and a sudden reserve came over him. “I have only to apologize for this intrusion and leave you. Monsieur le curé, may I request you to go?”
“Sit down, boy, sit down,” said his host kindly. “I want to ask you some questions about yourself.”
Eugene resumed his seat, and with the air of a complaisant though suffering martyr responded to the questions put to him.
Something about his coldly courteous answers excited the keenest interest in his interrogator. “See here, my lad,” he said at last, “I want you to stay to dinner this evening and meet my wife. Don’t say a word to her on the subject of our conversation. I wish that to be a secret between you and me; for to tell the truth, you would only be laughed at if it were to get out. Will you stay? and you, sir?” and he addressed the curé.
Eugene at first recoiled in spirit from this proposal, but he felt himself bound to convey the invitation to the curé; and the delight of the good man at the honor was so extravagant and unbounded that the boy gracefully yielded and consented to stay, only stipulating that a message be sent to the Hardys, who were expecting them to return to partake of their supper.