"I love your cousin; you know that, don't you?"
Maurice nodded.
"I have loved her for a year, and you see me here, still hesitating to speak to her father."
"Why?"
"Because I know that she does not love me…. Oh! I believe," he went on sadly, "I hope, at least that she does feel some friendship for me—but if she declines my proposal… what else would ever matter to me?"
Maurice came and sat down beside him.
"Your mother?" he queried.
"My mother loves Esperance devotedly, and she has a very real admiration for your uncle as well. She is very religious. M. Darbois's philosophical books, which deny nothingness and proclaim the ideal, have been a great comfort to her in her voluntary solitude. She would be very happy to know if I could be happy."
"But," objected Maurice. "I am afraid that my cousin does not wish to give up her art—the stage."
"Yes, I am aware of that, but my mother and I have not the stupid prejudices of the multitude. Undoubtedly, this union, under such conditions, would estrange us from many of our so called friends, and I should have to give up the diplomatic service, but that would not trouble me. No," he went on, resting his hand on Maurice's knee, "the hard part would be to see her every evening surrounded by the admiration of so many men. I suffered when she was playing at the Vaudeville, and then she was scarcely more than a child, but I heard them all commenting on her beauty and it was all I could do to control myself. What shall I be if she becomes my wife? Ah! my wife! my wife! I really believe, M. Renaud, that her refusal would drive me mad; so, I hesitate. Hope is the refuge of the sick; and I am very sick—sick at heart."