“Why ask such a question?  Is there anywhere in the world a better father than mine?”

“But you are very good also. . . .  There are many young ladies who would have been by no means pleased.”

“And why, I should like to know?  There is nothing disagreeable about the fellow.  When he has been polished a little . . .”

“He will always be perfectly ugly.”

“My dear Leblanc, he is far from ugly.  You are too old; you are no longer a judge of young men.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the chevalier, who came in to look for a book.

“Mademoiselle Leblanc is here, is she?” he said in a very quiet tone.  “I thought you were alone with my son.  Well, Edmee, have you had a talk with him?  Did you tell him that you would be his sister?  Are you pleased with her, Bernard?”

Such answers as I gave could compromise no one.  As a rule, they consisted of four or five incoherent words crippled by shame.  M. de Mauprat returned to his study, and I had sat down again, hoping that my cousin was going to send away her duenna and talk to me.  But they exchanged a few words in a whisper; the duenna remained, and two mortal hours passed without my daring to stir from my chair.  I believe Edmee really was asleep this time.  When the bell rang for dinner her father came in again to fetch me, and before leaving her room he said to her again: 

“Well, have you had a chat?”

“Yes, father, dear,” she replied, with an assurance that astounded me.

My cousin’s behaviour seemed to me to prove beyond doubt that she had merely been trifling with me, and that she was not afraid of my reproaches.  And yet hope sprang up again when I remembered the strain in which she had spoken of me to Mademoiselle Leblanc.  I even succeeded in persuading myself that she feared arousing her father’s suspicions, and that she was now feigning complete indifference only to draw me the more surely to her arms as soon as the favourable moment had arrived.  As it was impossible to ascertain the truth, I resigned myself to waiting.  But days and nights passed without any explanation being sent, or any secret message bidding me be patient.  She used to come down to the drawing-room for an hour in the morning; in the evening she was present at dinner, and then would play piquet or chess with her father.  During all this time she was so well watched that I could not exchange a glance with her.  For the rest of the day she remained in her own room—­inaccessible.  Noticing that I was chafing at the species of captivity in which I was compelled to live, the chevalier frequently said to me: 

“Go and have a chat with Edmee.  You can go to her room and tell her that I sent you.”

But it was in vain that I knocked.  No doubt they had heard me coming and had recognised me by my heavy shuffling step.  The door was never opened to me.  I grew desperate, furious.