George blushed a little as he recalled what he had said to Fleurange some minutes before, but did not interrupt him.
“Fatality,” pursued Adelardi, “signifies something irresistible; irresistible means that, without hesitation, without scruple, without remorse, you are going to abuse the ascendency you only know too well how to exercise.”
“Go on,” said Count George.
“Well, George, sermons from me would be quite out of place, and I would not venture on one to you; but, at the risk of your finding it strange from my lips, I must tell you that, to ensnare a noble creature like her, or even blemish by a word the halo of goodness and purity that surrounds her, would be infamy in my eyes.”
“And you think me capable of such infamy, Adelardi? I have reason to thank you.”
“Come, George, swear that you are not thinking of it.”
“Of what?”
“Of her.”
“Of her? I cannot swear that. But I am astonished that the respect you feel for her in spite of yourself—an unusual thing, indeed—you think me incapable of.”
“Then what are you thinking of, George?”