‘I respect you for the wish; but, monsieur, now that the worst is over, will you not take courage and look forward to the time that is coming, when you will begin life anew, and be able to show the world that you are capable of upholding the honour of your name and of your family?’ ‘These terrible years that must intervene,’ he groaned. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I shall live through them.’ ‘Oh yes, you will! You are young and strong. Why should you fear otherwise? I wish you were married, monsieur! and had a nice wife at the château, to make it pleasant and cheerful for you. Then the time of waiting would not seem so long.’ ‘Where am I to find a wife, mademoiselle, who will consent to bury herself in St. Pucelle, on six thousand francs a year, for the next four years? Tell me, and I will offer her my hand and heart upon the spot.’ Now, I thought, is the time to put in a word for Tessie. His eyes have but to be opened to see all her virtues for himself. ‘I know of several,’ I answered confidently: ‘sweet good girls, who would love you for your own merits, and care nothing about your money. There is Tessie Lovett, for instance. Where could you find a woman that would make a better wife than she?’ His face fell to about a yard long. ‘Miss Lovett! the very pale one, you mean, with blond locks. Why, she is like a statue, mademoiselle! She hardly ever opens her mouth. She has no spirit—no _chic_ about her. I don’t think she would brighten up the old château very much—nor me either, for the matter of that.’ Oh, the insolence of men! I really began to believe they were all alike, and never too miserable nor unfortunate to lose their self-conceit. Here was a young fellow, who had just acknowledged himself to be everything that was bad and wicked, and unworthy the regard of any woman, turning up his nose at one of the best and sweetest creatures God ever made, just because she had not got cheeks as red as peonies, and a tongue that clacked like a water-mill all day! ‘Why, she is all the better for not talking!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you like a woman who chatters like a magpie?’ ‘No, mademoiselle. But I like a woman who can converse with me and sympathise with me; who can scold me a little when I do wrong, and advise me for my good; and who is brave and unselfish, and has been brought up by a good mother in whose footsteps she will follow.’ I blushed at this eulogium, because it sounded so much as if it was meant for myself. But I was true to Tessie notwithstanding. ‘And how do you know, monsieur, that Miss Lovett is not all that you say?’ I inquired. ‘I do not know—but I have my opinions.’ ‘I thought you liked her so much,’ I said disappointedly. ‘So I do. But I will not _like_ my wife, I will _love_ her.’ ‘_Petite_ Ange is more sprightly and talkative than her sister,’ I observed.