“I have done wrong, madame,” he said, with deep feeling in his voice, “but it was through enthusiasm and thoughtlessness and eager desire of happiness, the qualities and defects of my age.  Now, I understand that I ought not to have tried to see you,” he added; “but, at the same time, the desire was a very natural one”—­and, making an appeal to feeling rather than to the intellect, he described the weariness of his enforced exile.  He drew a portrait of a young man in whom the fires of life were burning themselves out, conveying the impression that here was a heart worthy of tender love, a heart which, notwithstanding, had never known the joys of love for a young and beautiful woman of refinement and taste.  He explained, without attempting to justify, his unusual conduct.  He flattered Mme. de Beauseant by showing that she had realized for him the ideal lady of a young man’s dream, the ideal sought by so many, and so often sought in vain.  Then he touched upon his morning prowlings under the walls of Courcelles, and his wild thoughts at the first sight of the house, till he excited that vague feeling of indulgence which a woman can find in her heart for the follies committed for her sake.

An impassioned voice was speaking in the chill solitude; the speaker brought with him a warm breath of youth and the charms of a carefully cultivated mind.  It was so long since Mme. de Beauseant had felt stirred by real feeling delicately expressed, that it affected her very strongly now.  In spite of herself, she watched M. de Nueil’s expressive face, and admired the noble countenance of a soul, unbroken as yet by the cruel discipline of the life of the world, unfretted by continual scheming to gratify personal ambition and vanity.  Gaston was in the flower of his youth, he impressed her as a man with something in him, unaware as yet of the great career that lay before him.  So both these two made reflections most dangerous for their peace of mind, and both strove to conceal their thoughts.  M. de Nueil saw in the Vicomtesse a rare type of woman, always the victim of her perfections and tenderness; her graceful beauty is the least of her charms for those who are privileged to know the infinite of feeling and thought and goodness in the soul within; a woman whose instinctive feeling for beauty runs through all the most varied expressions of love, purifying its transports, turning them to something almost holy; wonderful secret of womanhood, the exquisite gift that Nature so seldom bestows.  And the Vicomtesse, on her side, listening to the ring of sincerity in Gaston’s voice, while he told of his youthful troubles, began to understand all that grown children of five-and-twenty suffer from diffidence, when hard work has kept them alike from corrupting influences and intercourse with men and women of the world whose sophistical reasoning and experience destroys the fair qualities of youth.  Here was the ideal of a woman’s dreams, a man unspoiled as yet by the egoism of family or success, or by that narrow selfishness which blights the first impulses of honor, devotion, self-sacrifice, and high demands of self; all the flowers so soon wither that enrich at first the life of delicate but strong emotions, and keep alive the loyalty of the heart.