"Yes," continued the sick man, "I should return to life and happiness! The prospect of seeing myself surrounded by a new branch of our family, of embracing my grandchildren, and of seeing the perpetuation of our house ensured, would suffice to cure me."
I felt moved at the mild and gentle pleading of the sufferer. The young woman made no reply. After a minute or two, the Count, who looked entreatingly at her, pursued:
"Odile, you refuse to make your father happy. My God! I only ask for hope; I fix no time! I do not seek to control your choice! We will go to court, and choose from a hundred noble suitors. Who would not be proud to win my daughter's hand? You shall be free to decide for yourself."
He paused. Nothing is more painful to a stranger than these family discussions. There are so many conflicting interests, deep emotions, and sacred feelings involved, that our innate delicacy demands that we hold aloof from such scenes. I was pained, and would gladly have withdrawn, but the circumstances did not permit of it.
"Father," said Odile, as if to evade further insistence on the sick man's part, "you will recover. Heaven will not take you from us who love you so dearly. If you only knew with what loving fervor I pray for you!"
"That is not answering my question," said the Count drily. "What objection have you to my proposal? Is it not just and natural? Must I be deprived of the consolations accorded the most wretched? Have I made use of force or trickery?"
"No, father!"
"My resolution is taken; I have consecrated myself to God."
So much firmness in so frail a being astonished me. She stood there like the sculptured Madonna in Hugh's Tower,—fragile, calm, impassive.