"It is perfectly true, my dear Ernestine," said Herminie, "that, after your departure, M. Olivier seemed to be deeply touched by the strange mixture of melancholy, frankness, and originality, that he had noticed in your conversation, and his interest seemed to be greatly increased when I told him, without committing any breach of confidence, I trust, that I felt sure your life was far from happy." "The truth is never a breach of confidence, my dear Herminie. Though one ought, of course, to conceal one's unhappiness from the indifferent, one should at least have the consolation of confessing it to one's friends." "Then you may be able to understand, mademoiselle," said Olivier, "that, by reason of the very peculiar circumstances of our first interview, there sprang up in my heart, not one of those sudden and violent emotions one sometimes experiences,--I should be uttering an untruth if I asserted this,--but an emotion full of sweetness and charm, together with a lively solicitude for you, a solicitude which memory and reflection rendered more and more keen. Such were my feelings, mademoiselle, when you, at the risk of your own life, saved the uncle whom I love as a father from a horrible death. Then, gratitude and the admiration which so noble an act richly merited were added to the sentiments I already entertained for you, but I should, probably, never have dared to give expression to these feelings had it not been for the unexpected good fortune that has befallen me." After pausing an instant, as if uncertain whether he had better go on, Olivier added: "And now, mademoiselle, I find myself again obliged to remind myself and to remind you that you love sincerity above all things." "Yes, M. Olivier, I do both love and appreciate sincerity above all things." "Well, mademoiselle, to speak frankly, you are not happy, and the persons with whom you live are not congenial to you. Is this not so?" "Yes, M. Olivier. The only happiness I have known since my parents' death dates from the hour of my entrance into Madame Herbaut's house." "I do not wish to sadden you, mademoiselle," continued Olivier, kindly, even tenderly. "I am loath, too, to remind you how hard and precarious the life of a young girl who is dependent upon her own exertions is, and yet, mademoiselle, however courageous and industrious you may be, you cannot forget that you are an orphan, surrounded by selfish, hard-hearted persons, who would cruelly desert you, perhaps, if want or sickness should be your portion, or manifest a humiliating pity towards you which would be even more hard to bear than heartless desertion." "You are perfectly right, monsieur. Privations, disdain, desertion, these are all I have to expect from the persons around me if I should become really destitute."