“No danger of that, my dear. You will never make me angry again; for I am sure you will now be as frank towards me as I am towards you. It was not your adapting that little poem to a French rather than to an English air that displeased me--I am not quite so childish as to be offended by such a trifle; but I own I did not like your saying that you chose it merely to comply with your mother’s taste.--And you will acknowledge, Emilie, there was a want of sincerity, a want of candour, in your affected look of astonishment, when I mentioned M. de Brisac. I do not claim your confidence as a right--God forbid!--But if the warmest desire for your happiness, the most affectionate sympathy, can merit confidence--But I will not say a word that can imply reproach. On the contrary, I will only assure you, that I have penetration sufficient always to know your wishes, and activity enough to serve you effectually, even without being your confidante. I shall this night see a friend who is in power--I will speak to him about M. de Brisac: I have hopes that his pension from our government may be doubled.” “I wish it may, for his sake,” said Emilie; “but certainly not for my own.” “Oh! Mlle. de Coulanges!--But I have no right to extort confidence. I will not, as I said before, utter a syllable that can imply reproach. Let me go on with what I was telling you of my intentions. As soon as the pension is doubled, I will speak to Mad. de Coulanges about M. de Brisac.” “For Heaven’s sake, do not!” interrupted Emilie; “for you would do me the greatest possible injury. Mamma would then think it a suitable match, and she would wish me to marry him; and nothing could make me move unhappy than to be under the necessity of acting contrary to my duty--of disobeying and displeasing her for ever--or else of uniting myself to M. de Brisac, whom I can neither love nor esteem.” “Is it possible,” exclaimed Mrs. Somers, with joyful astonishment, “is it possible that I have been under a mistake all this time? My dearest Emilie! now you are every thing I first thought you! Indeed, I could not think with patience of your making such a match; for M. de Brisac is a mere nothing--worse than a mere nothing; a coxcomb, and a peevish coxcomb.” “And how could you suspect me of loving such a man?” said Emilie. “I never thought you loved him, but I thought you would marry him. French marriages, you know, according to _l’ancien régime_, in which you were brought up, were never supposed to be affairs of the heart, but mere alliances of interest, pride, or convenience.”