“To an extraordinary degree, my friend.”

“No! there is something under that; you have discovered this means of drawing us together, and you wish to sacrifice yourself for the peace of the family.”

“I swear to you that I am not thinking in the least of the peace of the family; I am thinking wholly of my own, which is very much disturbed, for I love that child with an energy of feeling that I never knew before.  If I don’t marry her, I shall never console myself for the rest of my life.”

“To that extent?” said Lucan, dumfounded.

“It is a terrible thing, mon cher,” rejoined Monsieur de Moras.  “I am absolutely in love; when she looks at me, when I touch her hand, when her dress rustles against me, I feel, as it were, a philter running through my veins.  I had heard of emotions of that kind, but I had never felt them.  I must confess that they delight me; but at the same time they distress me, for I cannot conceal the fact to myself that there are a thousand chances against one that my passion will not be reciprocated, and it really seems as though my heart should wear mourning for it as long as it shall beat.”

“What an adventure!” said Lucan, who had recovered all his gravity.  “That is a very serious matter; very annoying.”

He walked a few steps about the parlor, absorbed in thoughts that seemed of a rather somber character.

“Is Julia aware of your sentiments?” he said, suddenly.

“Most certainly not; I would not have taken the liberty of informing her of them without first speaking to you.  Will you be kind enough to act as my ambassador to her mother?”

“Why, yes, with pleasure,” said Lucan, with a shade of hesitation that did not escape his friend.

“You think that is useless, don’t you?” said the count with a forced smile.

“Useless—­why so?”

“In the first place, it is very late.”

“It is somewhat late, no doubt.  Things have gone very far; but I have never had much confidence in the stability of Julia’s ideas of her vocation.  Besides, in these restless imaginations, the sincerest resolutions of to-day become readily the dislikes of the morrow.”

“But you doubt that—­that I should succeed in pleasing her?”

“Why should you not please her?  You are more than good-looking.  You are thirty-two years old; she is sixteen.  You are a little richer than she is.  All that does very well.”

“Well, then, why do you hesitate to serve me?”

“I do not hesitate to serve you; only I see you very much in love; you are not accustomed to it, and I fear that a condition of things so novel for you might be urging you somewhat hastily to such a grave determination as marriage.  A wife is not a mistress.  In short, before taking an irrevocable step I would beg of you to think well and further over it.”