“Bah!  In that case I should take you with me; you know that very well.”

“A woman, then?”

“Yes,” said Lucan dryly.

“Excuse my importunity, and good-by.”

“I have wounded your feelings, dear friend?” said Lucan, detaining him.

“Yes,” said the count, “I certainly do not pretend to enter into your secrets; but I do not absolutely understand the tone of restraint, and almost of hostility, in which you are answering me on the subject of this journey.  It is not, moreover, the first symptoms of that nature that strike and grieve me; for some time past, I find you visibly embarrassed in your intercourse with me; it seems as though I were in your way and my friendship were a burden to you, and the cruel idea has occurred to my mind that this journey is merely a way of putting an end to it.”

“Mon Dieu!” murmured Lucan.  “Well, then,” he went on with evident agitation in his voice, “I must tell you the whole truth; I hoped that you would have guessed it—­it is so simple.  Your cousin, Clotilde, has now been a widow for nearly two years; that, I believe, is the term consecrated by custom to the mourning of a husband.  I am aware of your feelings toward her; you may now marry her, and you will be perfectly right in doing so.  Nothing seems to me more just, more natural, more worthy of her and of yourself.  I beg to assure you that my friendship for you shall remain faithful and entire, but I trust you will not object to my keeping away for a short time.  That’s all.”

Monsieur de Moras seemed to have infinite difficulty in comprehending the meaning of this speech; he remained for several seconds after Lucan had ceased to speak, with wondering countenance and fixed gaze, as if trying to find the solution of a riddle; then rising abruptly and grasping both Lucan’s hands: 

“Ah! that’s kind of you, that is!” he said with grave emotion.

And after another cordial grasp, he added gayly: 

“But if you expect to stay in Sweden until I have married Clotilde, you may begin building and even planting there, for I swear to you that you shall stay long enough for either purpose.”

“Is it possible that you do not love her?” said Lucan in a half whisper.

“I love her very much, on the contrary; I appreciate her, I admire her; but she is a sister to me, purely a sister.  The most delightful thing about it, mon cher, is that it has always been my dream to have you and Clotilde marry; only you seemed to be so cold, so little attentive, so rebellious, particularly lately.  Mon Dieu! how pale you are, George!”