“What do I think, Monsieur?” I echoed to gain time. Then, thinking that a sententious answer would be the most fitting,—“Ma foi! Love is as the spark that lies latent in flint and steel: for days and weeks these two may be as close together as you please, and naught will come of it; but one fine day, a hand—the hand of chance—will strike the one against the other, and lo!—the spark is born!”
“You speak in parables, Monsieur,” was his caustic comment.
“'T is in parables that all religions are preached,” I returned, “and love, methinks, is a great religion in this world.”
“Love, sir, love!” he cried petulantly. “The word makes me sick! What has love to do with this union? Love, sir, is a pretty theme for poets, romancers, and fools. The imagination of such a sentiment—for it is a sentiment that does not live save in the imagination—may serve to draw peasants and other lowbred clods into wedlock. With such as we—with gentlemen—it has naught to do. So let that be, Monsieur. Andrea de Mancini came hither to wed my daughter.”
“And I am certain, Monsieur,” I answered stoutly, “that Andrea will wed your daughter.”
“You speak with confidence.”
“I know Andrea well. Signs that may be hidden to you are clear to me, and I have faith in my prophecy.”
He looked at me, and fell a victim to my confidence of manner. The petulancy died out of his face.
“Well, well! We will hope. My Lord Cardinal is to create him Duke, and he will assume as title his wife's estate, becoming known to history as Andrea de Mancini, Duke of Canaples. Thus shall a great house be founded that will bear our name. You see the importance of it?”
“Clearly.”