“Your pardon, sir; perhaps I have not clearly expressed my meaning,” continued Marguerite, making an effort to control her feelings, and to conceal from the man upon whom her future fate depended, the impression his words had produced upon her mind. “But you must attribute my hesitation, sir, to the timidity of a young girl, compelled by imperious circumstances to speak on such a subject.” “Not at all, mademoiselle,” replied Lectoure, bowing and giving to his voice a tone which nearly approached raillery; “on the contrary, you speak like _Clarissa Harlowe_, and all you say is as clear as daylight. God has endowed me with a mind sufficiently quick-sighted perfectly to comprehend things which are but hinted at.” “How, sir!” cried Marguerite, “you comprehend what I had the intention of saying, and you allow me to continue? How would it be if on looking deeply into my heart and interrogating all its feelings, I found it impossible to love--to love the person who had been presented to me as my future husband?” “Why,” replied Lectoure, in the same sarcastic tone in which he had before spoken, “in my opinion the best course to pursue would be not to tell him of it.” “And why not, sir?” “Because--but--but--because it would really be too simple.” “And if that avowal were made, not from simplicity but from delicacy? If I added, and may the shame of such an avowal fall back on those who compel me to make it--if I added sir, that I have loved, that I still love?” “Oh! some little romance, is it not so?” said Lectoure, carelessly, crossing his leg and playing with the frill of his shirt; “upon my honor, the race of little cousins is an accursed race. But fortunately we know what these ephemeral attachments are; and there is not a school-girl, who, after the holidays, does not return to her convent but with a passion in her little heart.” “Unfortunately for me,” replied Marguerite, with, a voice as sorrowful and grave as that of the baron was sarcastic and light, “unfortunately, I am no longer a school-girl, sir; and although still young, I have long ago passed the age of childish games and infantine attachments. When I speak to the man who does me the honor to solicit my hand and to offer me his name, of my love for another, he ought to understand that I am speaking of a serious, profound, and eternal love; of one of those passions, in fine, which leave their traces in the heart, and imprint them there for ever.” “The devil!” exclaimed Lectoure, as if beginning to attach some importance to Marguerite’s confession; “why, this is perfectly pastoral. But let us see! is it a young man whom one can receive at one’s house?” “Oh! sir,” cried Marguerite, catching at the hope which these words seemed to inspire: “oh! believe me, he is the most estimable being, the most devoted soul----”