The bright years of our earlier days will pass away too, for you are under the influence of a deep-seated grief; but at thirty years of age you will have become a man, the vigor of maturity will have then arrived; it will hurry away with it all that remains of your wornout sorrow, and then you will wish to live over again; but it will be too late.  Then, too, you will have grown melancholy in thought, plain in person, suffering in feeling; passion will have been extinguished in your heart, the bright light of your eye will have become quenched.  They whose society you seek will flee you as a whited sepulcher, whose darksome depths repel every glance.  Henri, I speak as a friend, seriously, wisely; listen to me.”

The young man remained unmoved and silent.  The cardinal hoped that he had touched his feelings, and had shaken his resolution.

“Try some other resource, Henri.  Carry this poisoned shaft, which rankles in your bosom, about with you wherever you may go, in the turmoil of life; cherish its companionship at our fetes and banquets; imitate the wounded deer, which flees through the thickets and brakes and forests, in its efforts to draw out from its body the arrow which is rankling in the wound; sometimes the arrow falls.”

“For pity’s sake,” said Henri, “do not persist any more; what I solicit is not the caprice of a moment, or the reflection of an hour; it is the result of a laborious and painful determination.  In Heaven’s name, therefore, my brother, I adjure you to accord me the favor I solicit.”

“And what is the favor you ask?”

“A dispensation, monseigneur.”

“For what purpose?”

“To shorten my noviciate.”

“Ah!  I knew it, Du Bouchage.  You are worldly-minded even in your rigorousness, my poor boy.  Oh!  I know very well what reason you are going to give me.  Yes, you are, indeed, a man of the world; you resemble those young men who offer themselves as volunteers, and are eagerly desirous for fire, balls, and blows, but care not for working in the trenches, or for sweeping out the tents.  There is some resource left yet, Henri; so much the better, so much the better.”

“Give me the dispensation I ask; I entreat you on my knees.”

“I promise it to you; I will write to Rome for it.  It will be a month before the answer arrives; but, in exchange, promise me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“That you will not, during this month’s postponement, reject any pleasure or amusement which may be offered to you; and if, in a month hence, you still entertain the same projects, Henri, I will give you this dispensation with my own hand.  Are you satisfied now, and have you nothing further to ask me?”

“No.  I thank you; but a month is a long time, and the delay will kill me.”

“In the meantime, and in order to change your thoughts, will you object to breakfast with me?  I have some agreeable companions this morning.”