“It is, then, true that you love Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz?” asked the abbe.
“I have sworn that she never shall know it,” replied Samuel, in accents of the most humble contrition. “Yesterday I had the unworthy weakness to betray myself. Mon Dieu! what must she have thought of me?”
As he spoke thus, his face buried in his hands, he slightly moved apart his fingers, and fixed upon the abbe two glittering eyes that, like cats’ eyes, were capable of seeing clearly in the dark.
“What she thinks of you!” echoed the abbe, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. “Bah! my dear count, women never are angry when a man swoons away because of their bright eyes, especially when this man is a noble chevalier, a true knight of the Round Table. I have reason to believe that Mlle. Moriaz did not take your accident unkindly. Shall I tell you my whole thought? I should not be surprised if you had touched her heart, and that, if you take the pains, you may flatter yourself with the hope of one day being loved by her.”
At this moment the voice of his worthy friend appeared to Samuel Brohl the most harmonious of all music. He felt a delicious thrill quiver through his frame. The abbe was telling him nothing he had not known before; but there are things of which we are certain, things that we have told ourselves a hundred times, and yet that seem new when told us for the first time by another.
“You are not misleading me?” ejaculated Samuel Brohl, overwhelmed with joy, transported beyond himself. “Can it really be true!—One day I may flatter myself—one day she may judge me worthy—Ah! what a glorious vision you cause to pass before my eyes! How good and cruel together you are to me! What bitterness is intermingled with the ineffable sweetness of your words! No, I never could have believed that there could be so much joy in anguish, so much anguish in joy.”
“What would you imply, my dear count?” interposed Abbe Miollens. “Have you need of a negotiator? I can boast of having had some experience in that line. I am wholly at your service.”
These words calmed Samuel Brohl. Quickly recovering himself, he coldly rejoined:
“A negotiator? What occasion would I have for a negotiator? Do not delude me with a chimera, and above all do not tempt me to sacrifice my honour to it. This height of felicity that you offer to me I must renounce forever; I have told you why.”
Abbe Miollens was at first inclined to be indignant; he even took the liberty to rebuke, to expostulate with his noble friend. He endeavoured to prove to him that his principles were too rigorous, that such a thing is possible as exaggeration in virtue, too great refinement in delicacy of conscience. He represented to him that noble souls should beware of exaltation of sentiment. He cited the Gospels, he cited Bossuet, he also cited his well-beloved Horace, who censored all that was ultra or excessive, and recommended the sage to flee all extremities. His reasoning was weak against the unwavering resolution of Samuel, who resisted, with the firmness of a rock, all his remonstrances, and finally ended these with the words: