Guillaume, like a man of the world, treated Mario's pretensions lightly, but without acrimony or malice; for the child was excited enough to demand satisfaction, and Guillaume loved him too well to care to irritate him to that point. He took his leave with the not unreasonable hope of triumphing over a rival who did not come to his shoulder. Mario slept poorly and had no appetite the next day. His father took him home, fearing that he would fall ill, and beginning to conclude that it is not well to play with the future of children in their presence. But this tardy repentance did not cure him. His abnormal, romantic brain, which had never ceased to be the brain of a child, could not understand the sound conception of time. Just as he believed that he was still young, so he imagined that Mario was ripe for the kind of love, cold and loquacious, chaste and affected, with which _Astrée_ had permeated his mind. Mario knew nothing of the subtle distinctions of words. He simply felt an intolerable heart-ache, the only deep-rooted and lasting torture. He said: "I love Lauriane;" and if he had been asked with what kind of love, he would have answered in good faith that there were not two kinds. Pure as the angels, he had the true ideal of life, which is to love for the sake of loving. As soon as De Beuvre and his daughter were left alone, he strongly urged her to decide in favor of Guillaume d'Ars. "I did not wish to displease the marquis by declaring my preference," he said; "but his dream is rank madness, and I fancy that you do not care to wear the black cap six years longer, until this little brat has lost all his milk teeth." "I did not enter into this engagement myself," replied Lauriane; "but I am afraid that you unconsciously entered into it for me with the marquis." "I would snap my fingers at it, if I had," rejoined De Beuvre; "but that is not the case. So much the worse for the old fool and his cub if they take thoughtless words seriously; one will console himself with a wooden horse, the other with a new doublet; for they are equally childish." "My dear father," said Lauriane, "it is no longer possible for me to jest about the marquis. He has been more than a father to me, something like a father, mother and brother all together, there has been so much protecting care, motherly affection and pleasant raillery in his manner toward me! And if Mario is only a child, he is not like other children. He is a girl in gentleness and delicacy; and he is a man in courage, for you know what he has done, and, furthermore, that he is very learned for his years.. He could teach both of us!" "Faith, my girl," cried De Beuvre, puffing himself out, "you dote too much on the Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré, and it seems to me that I am no longer of much account in your eyes. You seem to think a vast deal of their grief and nothing at all of my consent, since you turn a deaf ear to me when I speak of Guillaume d'Ars."