"But you are very strange, my friend, I assure you," said Lucan. "What is the matter with you? whom do you mean to blame? You are certainly aware that Julia proposes taking the vail wholly of her own accord; that her mother is distressed about it, and that she has spared no effort to dissuade her from that step. As to myself, I have no reason whatever to be fond of her; she has caused and is still causing me much grief; but you know well enough that I have ever been ready to greet her as my daughter, if she had deigned to return to us." "Oh! I accuse neither her mother nor yourself, of course; it is the baroness who irritates me; she is unnatural! Julia is her grandchild after all, and she rejoices--she positively rejoices--at the prospect of seeing her a nun!" "_Ma foi_, I declare to you that I am not far from rejoicing too. The situation is too painful for Clotilde; it must be brought to an end; and as I see no other possible solution--" "But I beg your pardon; there might be another." "And which?" "She might marry." "How likely! and marry--whom, pray?" The count approached nearer to Lucan, looked him straight in the face, and smiling with some embarrassment: "Me!" he said. "Repeat that!" said Lucan. "_Mon cher_," rejoined the count, "you see that I am as red as a peony; spare me. I have wished for a long time to broach that delicate question to you, but my courage has failed me; since I have found it, at last, don't deprive me of it." "My dear friend," said Lucan, "allow me to recover a little first, for I am falling from the clouds. What! you are in love with Julia?" "To an extraordinary degree, my friend." "No! there is something under that; you have discovered this means of drawing us together, and you wish to sacrifice yourself for the peace of the family." "I swear to you that I am not thinking in the least of the peace of the family; I am thinking wholly of my own, which is very much disturbed, for I love that child with an energy of feeling that I never knew before. If I don't marry her, I shall never console myself for the rest of my life." "To that extent?" said Lucan, dumfounded. "It is a terrible thing, _mon cher_," rejoined Monsieur de Moras. "I am absolutely in love; when she looks at me, when I touch her hand, when her dress rustles against me, I feel, as it were, a philter running through my veins. I had heard of emotions of that kind, but I had never felt them. I must confess that they delight me; but at the same time they distress me, for I cannot conceal the fact to myself that there are a thousand chances against one that my passion will not be reciprocated, and it really seems as though my heart should wear mourning for it as long as it shall beat." "What an adventure!" said Lucan, who had recovered all his gravity. "That is a very serious matter; very annoying." He walked a few steps about the parlor, absorbed in thoughts that seemed of a rather somber character.