Amélie and her husband told me so often and so earnestly that I loved Pélagie, that I began to think that they would end by making me believe it. And, after all, should I be so badly off if I married that young innocent? If I was not in love with her, perhaps I should be all the happier; moreover, I was well aware that I was incapable of a new love; the most that I could do was to stamp out that which still tormented me in spite of myself. Beside the innocent Pélagie, I should pass placid days; she was bashful, virtuous, well bred; a husband would be able to mould her as he chose. Friendship, they say, is more durable than love; I would begin with friendship for my wife, so that I might love her the longer. I should not be jealous; I should have one less source of torment. I should have children, whom I would bring up on a very different plan from my sister's. Finally, having a gentle, guileless, and taciturn wife, we should have none of those little discussions which Amélie called conjugal amenities, but which were in my eyes very unpleasant quarrels. All these reflections produced a state of indecision, which my sister interpreted in accordance with her favorite idea. Persuaded that I loved Pélagie secretly, that Pélagie adored me, and that our union would make me the happiest of husbands and ensure my future peace of mind, Amélie urged me, harassed me, persecuted me, to induce me to authorize her to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle de Pontchartrain. At every moment in the day she drew for me a new picture of the delights of wedded life. Déneterre did the same; in the first place, to please his wife, and, secondly, because he thought it would be a good match for me; to cap the climax, even messieurs my nephews had been taught their lesson, and every day, as they climbed on my knees or my shoulders, they would say: "When are you going to invite us to the wedding, uncle?" I am naturally weak, as you must have noticed; tired of being tormented from morning till night to marry, I saw that I must either make up my mind to do it or leave the town, where I was already pointed out as Mademoiselle de Pontchartrain's future husband. But if I returned to Paris, what should I do there, tired as I was of bachelor life, and conscious of a craving to love, to attach myself to someone, and to detach myself from her whom I had loved so dearly?--No, I would marry, I would adore my wife if possible, and pray that she would prove my rock of salvation. The result of these reflections was that I said one day in response to my sister's entreaties: "Do whatever you choose." Amélie asked no further questions; she threw her arms around me, kissed me, and, giving me no chance to add a single word, flew to Madame de Pontchartrain's to sue for Pélagie's hand for her brother. In half an hour she returned with the answer, which was favorable.