She was, she said, certain of success.  A new line of communication between Tours and Chinon was to be opened by an active man, a carrier, a cousin of Manette’s, who wanted a large farm on the route.  His family was numerous; the eldest son would drive the carts, the second could attend to the business, the father living half-way along the road, at Rabelaye, one of the farms then to let, would look after the relays and enrich his land with the manure of the stables.  As to the other farm, la Baude, the nearest to Clochegourde, one of their own people, a worthy, intelligent, and industrious man, who saw the advantages of the new system of agriculture, was ready to take a lease on it.  The Cassine and the Rhetoriere need give no anxiety; their soil was the very best in the neighborhood; the farm-houses once built, and the ground brought into cultivation, it would be quite enough to advertise them at Tours; tenants would soon apply for them.  In two years’ time Clochegourde would be worth at least twenty-four thousand francs a year.  Gravelotte, the farm in Maine, which Monsieur de Mortsauf had recovered after the emigration, was rented for seven thousand francs a year for nine years; his pension was four thousand.  This income might not be a fortune, but it was certainly a competence.  Later, other additions to it might enable her to go to Paris and attend to Jacques’ education; in two years, she thought, his health would be established.

With what feeling she uttered the word “Paris!” I knew her thought; she wished to be as little separated as possible from her friend.  On that I broke forth; I told her that she did not know me; that without talking of it, I had resolved to finish my education by working day and night so as to fit myself to be Jacques’ tutor.  She looked grave.

“No, Felix,” she said, “that cannot be, any more than your priesthood.  I thank you from my heart as a mother, but as a woman who loves you sincerely I can never allow you to be the victim of your attachment to me.  Such a position would be a social discredit to you, and I could not allow it.  No!  I cannot be an injury to you in any way.  You, Vicomte de Vandenesse, a tutor!  You, whose motto is ‘Ne se vend!’ Were you Richelieu himself it would bar your way in life; it would give the utmost pain to your family.  My friend, you do not know what insult women of the world, like my mother, can put into a patronizing glance, what degradation into a word, what contempt into a bow.”

“But if you love me, what is the world to me?”

She pretended not to hear, and went on:—­

“Though my father is most kind and desirous of doing all I ask, he would never forgive your taking so humble a position; he would refuse you his protection.  I could not consent to your becoming tutor to the Dauphin even.  You must accept society as it is; never commit the fault of flying in the face of it.  My friend, this rash proposal of—­”

“Love,” I whispered.