“Set your heart at rest, Albert. I promise to watch over your interests. I assure you, in case of need, I will bring your uncle himself to your aid.”
“I will talk to Eugénie to-morrow morning,” she said to herself. “I shall never believe in such presumption till she confesses it herself.”
The next morning, Mme. Smithson went, full of anxiety, to her daughter’s chamber. Eugénie was that very moment thinking of Louis. The more she examined her own heart, the more clearly she saw herself forced to acknowledge her esteem for him. She had inwardly condemned him many times, but had as often found her suspicions were groundless. Without showing the least partiality for Louis, she could not help seeing he was intelligent, energetic, and sincerely pious. She even acknowledged that, of all the men she had ever met, not one was to be compared to him; he was superior to them all in every respect. From this, it was not a long step to confess him worthy of her affection. But he—did he love her?... Not a word, not a sign, had escaped him to indicate such a thing, and yet there was in his bearing towards her, in the tone of his voice, and in the value he attached to her good opinion, a something that assured her she had made a profound impression on him. But, then, why this coldness so rigorously maintained?... He was poor—and through his own fault—while she was rich. His coldness perhaps resulted from extreme delicacy.
Eugénie cut short her reflections by repeating: “Does he love me?... It may be. Do I love him?... I dare not say no. But we are in a peculiar position. If I find him, at the end of the account, worthy of being my husband, doubtless I should have to make the advances! But I like originality in everything. My father alone excites my fears. M. Louis would not be his choice. Why does he show himself so zealous a Catholic at present? Why not wait till he is married—if married we ever are? Then he could be as devoted to the church as he pleases.”
Mme. Smithson was hardly to be recognized when she entered her daughter’s room. She was generally affable and smiling, but now her face was lowering and agitated. She was evidently very nervous, as was usually the case when she had some disagreeable communication to make to her daughter. Eugénie at once divined what was passing in her mother’s heart. She was careful, however, not to aid her in unburdening herself.
After speaking of several things of no importance, Mme. Smithson assumed an unconcerned air—a sign of her extreme embarrassment—and broached the subject with a boldness peculiar to timid people when they see there is no way of receding.
“I must confess that was a strange notion of yours last evening.”
“What notion do you refer to, mother?” said Eugénie, in a tone at once dignified and ingenuous. She felt the storm was coming. As usual on such occasions, she laid aside the familiar thou for the respectful you. There was a spice of mischief in her tactics which I do not intend to applaud. She thus redoubled her mother’s embarrassment, and by the politeness of her manner increased her hesitation.
“What notion do I refer to?... You need not ask that. You know well enough what I allude to.... Yes; why should you, without any obligation, set yourself up to defend a man who is no relation of ours or even one of our friends, but a mere employé of your father’s; one who suits him certainly, but who is likely to cause trouble in the house; ... who is, in short, a dangerous man?...”
“You astonish me to the last degree, mother! I never, no, never should have suspected M. Louis of dangerous designs, or that he even had the power to disturb us.”