“It seems to me that in this place every one takes upon himself to give advice. Never mind, I am listening.” “You are in love with your cousin, are you not?” “You are very bold to ask such a question.” “It is not a question, it is a fact. Well, my advice is this: make your cousin love you, and become her husband.” “And why do you take this interest in me, Master Patience?” “Because I know you deserve it.” “Who told you so? The abbe?” “No.” “Edmee?” “Partly. And yet she is certainly not very much in love with you. But it is your own fault.” “How so, Patience?” “Because she wants you to become clever; and you--you would rather not. Oh, if I were only your age; yes, I, poor Patience; and if I were able, without feeling stifled, to shut myself up in a room for only two hours a day; and if all those I met were anxious to teach me; if they said to me, ‘Patience, this is what was done yesterday; Patience, this is what will be done to-morrow.’ But, enough! I have to find out everything myself, and there is so much that I shall die of old age before finding out a tenth part of what I should like to know. But, listen: I have yet another reason for wishing you to marry Edmee.” “What is that, good Monsieur Patience?” “This La Marche is not the right man for her. I have told her so--yes, I have; and himself too, and the abbe, and everybody. He is not a man, that thing. He smells as sweet as a whole flower-garden; but I prefer the tiniest sprig of wild thyme.” “Faith! I have but little love for him myself. But if my cousin likes him, what then, Patience?”