He smiled ever so little at the passion of my speech, but answered thoughtfully:
“It is but natural, I suppose. I do not think we will quarrel upon that score, monsieur.”
“For two years,” said I, in a low voice, speaking coldly and evenly, “I have been moved night and day by this love only. It has supported me in hunger and in weariness; it has led me in the wilderness; it has strengthened me in the fight; it has been more to me than all ambition. Even my love of my country has been second to it. I came here to-day for one reason only. And I find—you!”
“None can know so well as I what you have lost, monsieur,” said he very gravely, “as none can know so well as I what I have gained.”
His kindness, no less than his confidence, hurt me.
“Are you so sure?” I asked.
“The discussion is unusual, monsieur,” said he, with a sudden resentment. “I will only remind you that Mademoiselle de Lamourie has accepted my suit.”
No man’s sternness has ever troubled me, and I smiled slightly in acknowledgment of his very reasonable remark.
“The situation is unusual, so you must pardon me,” said I, “if I arrogate to myself a somewhat unusual freedom. I tell you now frankly that by all open and honorable means I will strive to win the love of Mademoiselle de Lamourie. I have hope that she has not yet clearly found the wisdom of her heart. I believe that I, not you, am the man whom she will love. Laugh at my vanity as much as you will. I am not yet ready to say my hope is dead, my life turned to nothingness.”
“You are weak,” said he, with some severity, “to hold your life thus, as it were, in jeopardy of a woman’s whim.”