"That is because I am touching upon a string that happens to be not quite in tune; so no wonder it jars a little. Do you not remember the old proverb?
'Touch a man whose skin is sound,
He will stand, and fear no wound:
Touch a man when he is sore,
He will start, and bear no more.'"
"How can you condescend to repeat such nonsense?" cried Edric, indignantly. "It is unworthy the poorest beggar in your dominions!"
"And how can you condescend to be moved at such nonsense, Edric?" replied Roderick, laughing. "Come, come! own the truth, for it is useless to attempt any longer to deny it. Say, candidly, that you are in love with Mademoiselle de Mallet, and I will tease you no longer."
"In love is too strong a term. I admire, esteem, and respect Mademoiselle de Mallet. I even think her possessed of a thousand charms and a thousand virtues; but as to being in love——"
"Well, well! we will not quarrel about words. I do not think you will ever make a romantic lover. You Englishmen are too reasoning and prudent ever to fall violently in love. Your blood is as cold as your climate. Now we take the thing quite differently; with us love is a devouring flame! a fire that absorbs our whole being—a stream that sweeps every thing before it—a madness—a delirium! In short, I don't know what it is!"
"I think not," said Edric, dryly.
"Psha, psha!" continued Roderick; "if it could be described, it would not be worth feeling. It is all spirit! all soul! if you tie it down to rules, it evaporates. Don't you think so in Greece, Alexis?"
The page bowed, and shaking his head, pressed his finger upon his lips.
"True," returned his master; "I had forgotten: but if you cannot speak, you can write. Take these tablets, I should like to know your opinion."