She glanced at him, and was terrified at the pallor which overspread his face. She gently took his hand, and said:
“Have patience!”
“Speak on!” he muttered, hoarsely.
“Monsieur,” she continued, with her smile of angelic charity, “God be praised, you are quite young; in our society men situated as you are do not marry early, and I think they are right. Well, then, this is what I wish to do, if you will allow me to tell you. I wish to blend in one affection the two strongest sentiments of my heart! I wish to concentrate all my care, all my tenderness, all my joy on forming a wife worthy of you—a young soul who will make you happy, a cultivated intellect of which you can be proud. I will promise you, Monsieur, I will swear to you, to consecrate to you this sweet duty, and to consecrate to it all that is best in myself. I shall devote to it all my time, every instant of my life, as to the holy work of a saint. I swear to you that I shall be very happy if you will only tell me that you will consent to this.”
His answer was an impatient exclamation of irony and anger: then he spoke:
“You will pardon me, Madame,” he said, “if so sudden a change in my sentiments can not be as prompt as you wish.”
She blushed slightly.
“Yes,” she said, with a faint smile; “I can understand that the idea of my being your mother-in-law may seem strange to you; but in some years, even in a very few years’ time, I shall be an old woman, and then it will seem to you very natural.”
To consummate her mournful sacrifice, the poor woman did not shrink from covering herself, even in the presence of the man she loved, with the mantle of old age.
The soul of Camors was perverted, but not base, and it was suddenly touched at this simple heroism. He rendered it the greatest homage he could pay, for his eyes suddenly filled with tears. She observed it, for she watched with an anxious eye the slightest impression she produced upon him. So she continued more cheerfully: