“How gallant you have become,” said Eugénie, laughing again. “But what has come over us! We used to say thou to each other; now we say you. Once we kept up a succession of compliments anything but flattering to each other, and here you are now gracious, amiable, and complimentary beyond description! It is a pity I can make no return.... But it is all in vain, my dear Albert; neither your white cravat nor your subdued air can deceive me. My aunt wrote me not long ago that you were just the same. Do you hear?—your own mother said there was no change in you.”
This unvarnished statement had really been made in one of Mme. Frémin’s letters. She little thought of injuring her son by showing him in so true a light.
“My mother was mistaken,” said Albert, exceedingly vexed at such annoying remarks; “or rather, you have given a wrong interpretation to her words. I am indeed the same in a certain sense. When there is cause for laughter, I am ready to laugh. But though it is proper to laugh at suitable times, I feel that excessive and constant gaiety is unworthy of a man who aspires to a high place in the estimation of others.”
“Ah! to think of your sermonizing, my dear cousin,” cried Eugénie, looking at him with a mocking air. “But now I begin to understand your behavior.... Yes; that is it.... You have an eye to the bench. You consider gravity as part of a judge’s outfit. You are right, but between ourselves, as no one hears you, confess that the mask is anything but comfortable.”
Albert was vexed and uneasy. His attempts were in vain: he could not persuade Eugénie he was really what he wished to appear. His sagacious cousin continued to banter him with a wit he found it difficult to ward off.
Eugénie had no special design in her bantering, but her very simplicity and wit disarmed Albert, and thwarted his plans. How far this was from the belle passion he hoped to inspire! Eugénie treated him merely like a cousin, almost like a boy. He resolved to let her see he was a man—a thoughtful and even religious man. “To-morrow,” thought he, “I will go and beard the lion in his den. I will watch him narrowly; I will become his friend in order to thwart him. When I have convinced my uncle and aunt there are others quite as rational as this gentleman, without being fanatics like him—for he is one, according to Eugénie’s own account—when I have won the admiration of my romantic cousin, then we will think of wooing. But we must begin by driving this Jesuit away. Really, the comedy begins to interest me. A fine fortune and a pretty wife are at stake. Moreover, there is this dismal creature to cover with confusion. If I do not come off conqueror, it will be because the fates are strangely against me.”
Such were Albert’s thoughts after retiring to his chamber. Then he betook himself to a novel. He was delighted to find himself so shrewd, and had no doubt of his success.
At that same hour, Louis was also awake, but absorbed in prayer. Piety daily increased in his steadfast soul: so did love in his heart. Albert’s arrival, which he was at once informed of, produced a painful impression. “Mr. Smithson distrusts me,” he said to himself; “Eugénie does not yet love me: it will be easy for this young man to win the place I covet in her heart.” He dwelt on these sad thoughts for some time, but soon had recourse to his usual source of consolation, and confided all his cares to God. The prayer he uttered might be summed up in these few words, so full of Christian heroism: “O my God! if it is in his power to render her happier than I could, I pray thee to bestow her on him, and let me find my only consolation in thee!...” The true Christian alone can so purify his affections as to render them disinterested. When Louis fell asleep, he felt a storm was brewing in the air, but calmness was in his heart. Resignation, trust in God, and the purity of his love had restored serenity to his soul.