"Dear uncle, I asked you days ago to talk to my father and mother. Why did you never do it? Then I might have been beforehand with that man--as to him, of course, he is an utter impossibility, and if Cousin Hervé sees that, we are safe--but still--" "Ah! there is a 'but' in the affair, I assure you. Madame would do anything for a nearer connection with her beloved Empire--and Ratoneau might be Napoleon's twin-brother, but that is a detail--and not only madame, your father is on the same side." "My father!" "He thinks there could not be a more sensible marriage. The daughter of the Comte de Sainfoy--a distinguished general of division; diable! what can anybody want more? So my Angelot, I was not a false prophet, it seems to me, when I felt very sure that what you asked me was hopeless. Your father would have been against you, for the sake of the Sainfoys; your mother, for opposite reasons. There was one chance, Hervé himself. I saw that he was very angry at the Ratoneau proposal; I thought he might snatch at an alternative. I still think he might have done so, if you had not behaved like a maniac. It was the moment, Angelot; such moments do not return. I was striking while the iron was hot--you, you only, made my idea useless. You made me look even more mad and foolish than yourself--not that I cared for that. As to danger from her mother, why, after all, her father is the authority." "Ah, but you are too romantic," sighed Angelot. "He would never have accepted me. He would never really oppose his wife, if her mind was set against him." "He opposes her now. He plainly said that his daughter should marry a gentleman, therefore not Ratoneau. And where have all your fine presumptuous hopes flown to, my boy? The other day you found yourself good enough for Mademoiselle Hélène." "Perhaps I do still," Angelot said, and laughed. "But I did not then quite understand the Comtesse. I know now that she detests me. Then, too, she had not seen or thought of Ratoneau--Dieu! What profanation! Was it quite new, the terrible idea? I saw the brute--pah! We were handing the coffee--" "Yes," said Monsieur Joseph. "As far as I know, the seed was sown, the plant grew and flowered, all in that one evening, my poor Angelot. Well--I hope all is safe now, but women are very clever, and there is your father, too--he is very clever. If it is not this marriage, it will be another--but you are not interested now; you have put yourself out of the question." "Don't say that, Uncle Joseph--and don't imagine that your troubles are over. You will have to do a good deal more for me yet, and for Hélène." He spoke slowly and dreamily, then added with a gesture of despair--"But my father--how could he! Why, the very sight of the man--" "Ah! Very poetical, your dear father, but not very sentimental. I told him so. He said the best poetry was the highest good sense. I do not quite understand him, I confess. Allons! I am afraid I do. He is a philosopher. He also--well, well!"