"He does not complain of it, monsieur le marquis, but he deplores the loss of your friendship. That regret disturbs his sleep and sometimes obscures the serenity of his amiable and resigned heart. He does not of his own accord mention your name, but if anybody mentions it in his presence, he speaks of you in the highest terms and his eyes fill with tears. And then, too, there is some one very near to him who suffers even more than himself in his sorrow, some one who respects you, who fears you and who dares not implore you, but whose affection and gratitude would be a blessing in your loneliness and a support in your old age." "What do you mean, Emile?" said the marquis, painfully affected. "Are you speaking of yourself? Does your friendship for me depend upon that condition? That would be very cruel on your part." "There is no question of me in this matter," Emile replied. "My attachment to you is too profound, and my sympathy too instinctive for me to put any price on them. I am speaking of some one who knows you only through me, but who had already divined your character and who does full justice to your noble qualities; of a person a thousand times more estimable than I, whom you would love with a father's affection if you knew her; in a word, I am speaking of an angel, of Mademoiselle Gilberte de Châteaubrun." Emile had no sooner pronounced that name, upon which he relied as a magic charm, than he saw his host's expression change in an alarming manner. The knobs of his thin, sallow cheeks flushed purple; his eyes started from their sockets; his arms and legs twitched convulsively. He tried to speak and stammered unintelligible words. At last he succeeded in saying this: "Enough, monsieur, that is enough, too much. Never be so misguided as to mention that _demoiselle's_ name to me!" And, leaving the cliff in the park, where this conversation took place, he entered the chalet and closed the door violently behind him. XIX THE PORTRAIT Emile did not return to Boisguilbault for several days. His sorrow was deep-seated. At first he was annoyed and angry at the marquis's distressing and incomprehensible caprice. But soon, after reflecting upon that strange episode, he conceived an immense pity for that diseased mind, which, amid ideas so lucid and instincts so affectionate, nourished a deplorable sort of mania, paroxysms of hatred or resentment closely akin to mental alienation. That was the only explanation that the young man could conceive of the violent effect produced on his venerable friend by the adored name of Gilberte. He was so dismayed by the discovery, that he no longer felt the courage to pursue so hopeless an undertaking and determined to inform Mademoiselle frankly of his failure. He bent his steps toward the ruins one evening, depressed by his discomfiture, and for the first time he was sad on his arrival. But love is a magician who overturns all our anticipations by unexpected favors or cruelties.