“But, _ma chère petite_, that wasn’t serious. It was because you had some stupid and beautiful idea of not deserting me. That is all imbecile. Young people must marry, _sacrebleu_! so that the race is perpetuated, and fathers and mothers and uncles don’t count.” “But what has that to do with it, _mon oncle_?” protested Félise. “I find Lucien very charming; but I don’t love him. If I loved him, I would marry him. But as I don’t love him, I can’t marry him.” “But marry him and you will love him,” cried Bigourdin, as millions of French fathers and uncles have cried for the last three or four hundred years. “It is very simple. What more do you want than a gallant fellow like Lucien?” Then, of course, she broke down, and began to cry. Bigourdin, unused to feminine tears, tried to clutch his hair. If it had been longer than half an inch of upstanding bristle, he would have torn it. “You don’t understand, _mon oncle_,” she sobbed, with bowed head. “It is only my mother who can advise me. I must see my mother.” Bigourdin put his arm round the girl’s slender shoulders. “Your mother, my poor Félise, sees nobody.” She raised her head and flashed out: “She sees my father. She lives with him in the same house. Why shouldn’t she see me?” “_Tiens, tiens_, my little Félise,” said Bigourdin soothingly. “There is no need for you to consult your mother. Both your father and your mother have a long while ago decided that you should marry Lucien. Do you think I would take a step of which they did not approve?” “A long while ago is not to-day,” sobbed Félise. “I want to talk to my mother.” Bigourdin walked across the salon, with his back to her, and snapped his fingers in peculiar agitation, and muttered below his breath: “_Nom de Dieu, de nom de Dieu, de nom de Dieu!_” Kindest-hearted of mortals though he was, he resented the bottom being knocked out of his scheme of social existence. For years he had looked forward to this alliance with the Viriots. Personally he had nothing to gain: on the contrary, he stood to lose the services of Félise and a hundred thousand francs. But he had set his heart on it, and so had the Viriots. To go to them and say, “My niece refuses to marry your son,” would be a slash of the whip across their faces. His failure to bring up a young girl in the proper sentiments would be a disgrace to him in the eyes of the community. He felt hurt, too, because he no longer sufficed her; she wanted her mother; and it was out of the question that she should go to her mother. No wonder he swore to himself softly. “But, _mon Dieu_,” said he, turning round. “What have you against Lucien?” Whereupon they went over all the argument again. She did not love Lucien. She didn’t want to marry Lucien. She would not marry a man she did not love. “Then you will die an old maid,” said Bigourdin. “An old maid, _figure-toi_! It would be terrible!”