“Basely!” she said; and two tears swam on her eyelashes, then glistened like diamonds on her cheek.
“And what do you believe of the religion of our aunt?”
“What would you have me believe of religion that bestows no virtue—restrains no vice?”
“Then you are a non-believer?”
“One may believe in God and the Gospel without believing in the religion of our aunt.”
“But she will drive you into a convent. Why, then, do you not enter one?”
“I love life,” the girl said.
He looked at her silently a moment, then continued “Yes, you love life—the sunlight, the thoughts, the arts, the luxuries—everything that is beautiful, like yourself. Then, Mademoiselle Charlotte, all these are in your hands; why do you not grasp them?”
“How?” she queried, surprised and somewhat startled.
“If you have, as I believe you have, as much strength of soul as intelligence and beauty, you can escape at once and forever the miserable servitude fate has imposed upon you. Richly endowed as you are, you might become to-morrow a great artiste, independent, feted, rich, adored—the mistress of Paris and of the world!”