"What, Constance, can it really be true? Oh! what bliss! your uncle is the best of men! Let me go and throw myself at his feet!"
"No, indeed! do you want him to scold me? shall I never be able to make you amenable to reason? Sit down here, monsieur, by my side."
"But when may I tell him that I love you?"
"When your father returns—he won't be away much longer, I am sure. Do you know whether he went very far?"
"Why—no—I don't think so; I am not certain."
"Well, my dear, now you are pensive."
"No, indeed I'm not!"
"So long as we were not certain of our happiness, I overlooked these dreamy airs, these fits of melancholy that seize you sometimes when you are with me; but understand, monsieur, that I won't have any more of such nonsense. You have no trouble, dear, no secret sorrow, that you can't confide to Constance, have you?"
"Of course not!"
"Promise me that you will tell me everything, absolutely everything; that I shall have your entire confidence. Ought a husband and wife to conceal anything from each other?"