“If—if she is used to such warm admiration. Is that it, brother Jacques?” “Exactly,” answered Jacques. “She is country bred, you know, and innocent as a fawn.” Mirabeau laughed rather boisterously. “Why, you foolish fellow, that is her chief attraction. Had she been one of your hackneyed court dames, her beauty would have passed as nothing. As it is, she is charming. Simple as a violet, pure as a lily-of-the-valley—not that I have seen one of late; but those things still linger in my memory Jacques, man of the world as you may think me.” CHAPTER X. MONSIEUR JACQUES IS INTRUSTED WITH A DELICATE MISSION. As Count de Mirabeau uttered these last words, Monsieur Jacques arose from his chair, and came close to his foster-brother. “Mirabeau,” he said, laying a hand on the count’s shoulder, and speaking with deep earnestness, “forget this girl. Spare her for my sake.” Mirabeau wheeled round in his chair, and gazed upon the man in laughing astonishment. His great head was thrown back, his eyes danced with merriment. “What! You, Jacques—you in love with that pretty rustic—really, truly? Do tell me how it happened! Why, man, how improbable!” “No,” said Monsieur Jacques, humbly enough, “love is so far apart from me, and so natural to you; but what man ever knows what destiny has in store for him. I saw her so sweet, so gentle, given up to sorrow, which she bore patiently, and, spite of myself, she became dear to me as my own life.” “And does she know this?” “Not for the world! I should drop with very shame at her feet if she but guessed it.” “I dare say,” answered Mirabeau, with cruel sincerity. “So dainty a creature as that might well be astonished. Why, man, I, myself, was half in love with her.” “I saw it.” “And now you warn me off the chase.” “I say to you only this. The foster-brother, who loves you better than himself, has but one thing on this earth that he would withhold from you, this single, forlorn hope of affection. Will you trample it under foot—you who have but to smile, and the best beauty and brightest wit of the land render the homage you scarcely deign to accept?” “Ah! that is because they do render it. Can’t you remember, Jacques, that, as a boy, I would never stoop to pick up the ripest and mellowest fruit that fell to my feet; but was ever up in the topmost branches of the tree, risking my neck for that which could only be got with difficulty. It is my nature, man, and I cannot help it. Now pray comprehend that in placing this interdict, which leaves all to my honor and brotherly affection, you lift the fruit to the very topmost bough, where I shall be forever tempted to climb for it.” “But, for my sake.”