"How can I help it, when you tell me that you are to be married? Constance, if your uncle is a tyrant, I will carry you off. We will fly together to the ends of the earth! You, you alone, will suffice for my happiness! This very night, if you agree, we will start. What, mademoiselle, you laugh at sight of my despair!" "Oh! Frédéric, what a hot-headed boy you are!" "Ah! mademoiselle is pleased to give me lessons in self-restraint! It seems to me that this projected marriage doesn't disturb you much. Is this how you love me?" "Naughty boy! what a savage reproof! Ah! my dear, because my love is more placid than yours, don't think that it is less strong and deep." "But this marriage that your uncle has in mind?" "Suppose it were you, monsieur, to whom he thinks of marrying me?" "Me!" Frédéric's features lightened up with a new expression; and Constance put her finger on his lips, saying: "Hush! not a word, my dear; uncle forbade me to speak--but how can I let you suffer long?" "What, Constance, can it really be true? Oh! what bliss! your uncle is the best of men! Let me go and throw myself at his feet!" "No, indeed! do you want him to scold me? shall I never be able to make you amenable to reason? Sit down here, monsieur, by my side." "But when may I tell him that I love you?" "When your father returns--he won't be away much longer, I am sure. Do you know whether he went very far?" "Why--no--I don't think so; I am not certain." "Well, my dear, now you are pensive." "No, indeed I'm not!" "So long as we were not certain of our happiness, I overlooked these dreamy airs, these fits of melancholy that seize you sometimes when you are with me; but understand, monsieur, that I won't have any more of such nonsense. You have no trouble, dear, no secret sorrow, that you can't confide to Constance, have you?" "Of course not!" "Promise me that you will tell me everything, absolutely everything; that I shall have your entire confidence. Ought a husband and wife to conceal anything from each other?" "Yes, Constance, I promise; I will tell you all my thoughts." Frédéric was not absolutely truthful at that moment, but his falsehood was excusable, for his entire confidence just then would not have afforded great pleasure to Constance, who was convinced that her lover thought of no one but her, and who, despite her tranquil air, her gentleness, and her confidence, loved Frédéric too ardently not to be susceptible to jealousy, a sentiment which, in women, is almost always inseparably connected with love.