"I never had any children," replied the marquis, taking Emile's hand in his and retaining it several moments; for he seemed to be revivified, and a sort of vital warmth enlivened his soft, dry skin. "Perhaps I was not worthy of having them; perhaps I should have brought them up badly! Nevertheless, I have deeply regretted that I have never had that joy. Now, I am entirely resigned to death; but if a little affection should come to me from without, I should accept it gratefully. I am not very trustful. Solitude breeds distrust. But I will make for your sake some effort to overcome my natural disposition, so that you may not be offended by my defects, especially by my surly humor, which horrifies everybody." "That is because nobody knows you," rejoined Emile. "People look upon you as very different from what you are. You are thought to be proud and obstinately attached to the chimera of ancient privileges. You have evidently taken care, with great cruelty toward yourself, not to allow your real character to be divined by any one." "Why should I have explained myself? What does it matter what people think of me? for, in the society in which I vegetate, my real opinions would seem even more ridiculous than those commonly attributed to me. If the cause which my mind has embraced would derive any benefit from a public declaration of my homage or my adhesion, no ridicule would turn me from it; but such adhesion on the part of a man so little loved as I am would be more harmful than useful to the progress of the truth. I cannot lie, and if any one had ever taken the trouble to come and question me, during these latter years since my opinions became fixed, it is probable that I should have said to him what I have said to you; but the circle of solitude grows wider about me every day and I have no right to complain. One must be amiable, in order to please, and I do not know how to make myself amiable, God having denied me certain gifts, which it is impossible for me to feign." Emile strove earnestly and affectionately to allay, so far as he could, the secret bitterness concealed beneath Monsieur de Boisguilbault's resignation. "It is very easy for me to be content with the present," said the old man with a sad smile. "I have very few years to live; although I am neither very old nor very ill, I feel that my vital thread is worn out, and my blood congeals and thickens every day. I might perhaps complain of having had no joys in the past; but when the past has fled, what does it matter what it was?--bliss or despair, strength or weakness, it has all vanished like a dream."