"Mademoiselle," he said, with great tenderness, yet most respectfully, "a harder heart than mine would be moved by your gentleness and beauty."
And here my own heart beat very rapidly at sound of another man speaking so adoringly to my beloved.
She looked at him questioningly, as if his tone and manner showed that she had misjudged him. His bearing was so gentle and sympathetic that she could not but be deceived by it. She ceased to show repugnance, and sat in the chair that he had brought.
"Monsieur," she said, "in my first opinion I may have wronged you. If your heart is truly moved, you can demonstrate your goodness by asking for my father's freedom. M. de la Chatre will grant it to you. You have a claim on his favor, as he says, while I have none. Free my father, then, and make me happy!"
Poor Julie! She thought not of herself. She knew that it would be useless to ask anything for me. Yet there was one thing that might be had from the situation—her father's freedom. So she summoned her energies, and devoted them to striving for that, though she was in terror of my being at any moment discovered.
"I would make you the happiest of women," said Montignac, in a low, impassioned tone, falling on one knee and taking her hand, "if you would make me the happiest of men."
Apprehension came into her eyes. She rose and moved towards the bed-curtains, and, in the vain hope of turning him from his purpose by pretending not to perceive it, said, with a sad little smile:
"Alas! it is out of my poor power to confer happiness!"
She half-turned her head towards where I stood behind the curtains, partly at thought of the happiness that it seemed impossible for her to confer on me, partly in fear lest Montignac's words might bring me forth.
"It is easily in your power to confer more than happiness," said
Montignac.