“Madame,” he continued, with his quiet grace, “I join in your hopes, and as you deign to encourage my ambition, I believe I shall succeed in obtaining your uncle’s support. You know him well. What shall I do to conciliate him? What course shall I adopt?—because I can not do without his assistance. Were I to renounce that, I should be compelled to renounce my projects.”
“It is truly difficult,” said Madame de Tecle, with a reflective air—“very difficult!”
“Is it not, Madame?”
Camors’s voice expressed such confidence and submission that Madame de Tecle was quite touched, and even the devil himself would have been charmed by it, had he heard it in Gehenna.
“Let me reflect on this a little,” she said, and she placed her elbows on the table, leaned her head on her hands, her fingers, like a fan, half shading her eyes, while sparks of fire from her rings glittered in the sunshine, and her ivory nails shone against her smooth brow. M. de Camors continued to regard her with the same submissive and candid air.
“Well, Monsieur,” she said at last, smiling, “I think you can do nothing better than keep on.”
“Pardon me, but how?”
“By persevering in the same system you have already adopted with my uncle! Say nothing to him for the present. Beg the General also to be silent. Wait quietly until intimacy, time, and your own good qualities have sufficiently prepared my uncle for your nomination. My role is very simple. I cannot, at this moment, aid you, without betraying you. My assistance would only injure you, until a change comes in the aspect of affairs. You must conciliate him.”
“You overpower me,” said Camors, “in taking you for my confidante in my ambitious projects, I have committed a blunder and an impertinence, which a slight contempt from you has mildly punished. But speaking seriously, Madame, I thank you with all my heart. I feared to find in you a powerful enemy, and I find in you a strong neutral, almost an ally.”
“Oh! altogether an ally, however secret,” responded Madame de Tecle, laughing. “I am glad to be useful to you; as I love General Campvallon very much, I am happy to enter into his views. Come here, Marie?” These last words were addressed to her daughter, who appeared on the steps of the terrace, her cheeks scarlet, and her hair dishevelled, holding a card in her hand. She immediately approached her mother, giving M. de Camors one of those awkward salutations peculiar to young, growing girls.