Meanwhile the old Visconte, somewhat civilized and modernized by recent restorations, was walking slowly to and fro in the little bowling-green, side by side with Blassemare.
"Yes," he said, "with confidence I give my child into his hands. It is a great trust, Blassemare; but he is gifted with those qualities, which, more than wealth, conduce to married happiness. I confide in him a great trust, but I feel I risk no sacrifice."
A comic smile, which he could not suppress, illuminated the dark features of Blassemare, and he looked away as if studying the landscape until it subsided.
"He is the most disinterested and generous of men," resumed the old gentleman.
"Ma foi, so he is," rejoined his companion; "but Mademoiselle de Charrebourg happened to be precisely the person he needed; birth, beauty, simplicity—a rare alliance. You underrate the merits of Mademoiselle de Charrebourg. He makes no such presents to the Sisters of Charity."
"Pardon me, sir, I know her merits well; she is indeed a dutiful and dear child."
And the Visconte's eyes filled with moisture, for his heart was softened by her prosperity, involving, as it did, his own.
"And will make one of the handsomest as she will, no doubt, one of the most loving wives in France," said Blassemare, gravely.
"And he will make, or I am no prophet, an admirable husband," resumed the Visconte; "he has so much good feeling and so much——"
"So much money," suggested Blassemare, who was charmed at the Visconte's little hypocrisy; "ay, by my faith, that he has; and as to that little bit of scandal, those mysterious reports, you know," he added, with a malicious simplicity.