“A negotiator? What occasion would I have for a negotiator? Do not delude me with a chimera, and above all do not tempt me to sacrifice my honour to it. This height of felicity that you offer to me I must renounce forever; I have told you why.” Abbe Miollens was at first inclined to be indignant; he even took the liberty to rebuke, to expostulate with his noble friend. He endeavoured to prove to him that his principles were too rigorous, that such a thing is possible as exaggeration in virtue, too great refinement in delicacy of conscience. He represented to him that noble souls should beware of exaltation of sentiment. He cited the Gospels, he cited Bossuet, he also cited his well-beloved Horace, who censored all that was ultra or excessive, and recommended the sage to flee all extremities. His reasoning was weak against the unwavering resolution of Samuel, who resisted, with the firmness of a rock, all his remonstrances, and finally ended these with the words: “Peace, I implore you! Respect my folly, which is surely wisdom in the eyes of God. I repeat it to you, I am no longer free, and, even if I were, do you not know that there is between Mlle. Moriaz and myself an insurmountable barrier?” “And pray, what is that?” demanded the abbe. “Her fortune and my pride,” said Samuel. “She is rich, I am poor; this adorable being is not made for me. I told Mme. de Lorcy one day what I thought of this kind of alliances, or, to speak more clearly, of bargains. Yes, my revered friend, I love Mlle. Moriaz with an ardour of passion with which I reproach myself as though it were a crime. Nothing remains to me but to avoid seeing her, and I never will see her again. Let me follow to its end my solitary and rugged path. One consolation will accompany me: I can say that happiness has not been denied to me: that it is my conscience, admonished from on high, which has refused to accept it, and there is a divine sweetness in great trials religiously accepted. Believe me, it is God who speaks to me, as he spoke to me of old in San Francisco, to enjoin me to forsake everything and give my blood for my country. I recognise his voice, which to-day bids my heart be silent and immolate itself on the altar of its chosen cause. God and Poland! Beyond this, my watch-word, I have no longer the right to yield to anything.” And, turning towards the statuette, he exclaimed: “It is at her feet that I lay down my dolorous offering; she it is who will cure my bruised and broken heart.”