“None, my Susie, none, absolutely none.  Why should I not tell you the truth?  Is it their fault?  Have they gone unskilfully to work?  Could they, in managing better, have found the way to my heart? or is the fault in me?  Is it perhaps, that the way to my heart is a steep, rocky, inaccessible way, by which no one will ever pass?  Am I a horrid little creature, and, cold, and condemned never to love?”

“I do not think so.”

“Neither do I, but up to the present time that is my history.  No, I have never felt anything which resembled love.  You are laughing, and I can guess why.  You are saying to yourself, ’A little girl like that pretending to know what love is!’ You are right; I do not know, but I have a pretty good idea.  To love—­is it not to prefer to all in the world one certain person?”

“Yes; it is really that.”

“Is it not never to weary of seeing that person, or of hearing him?  Is it not to cease to live when he is not there, and to immediately begin to revive when he reappears?”

“Oh, but this is romantic love.”

“Well, that is the love of which I dream, and that is the love which does not come—­not at all till now; and yet that person preferred by me to all and everything does exist.  Do you know who it is?”

“No, I do not know; I do not know, but I have a little suspicion.”

“Yes, it is you, my dearest, and it is perhaps you, naughty sister, who makes me so insensible and cruel on this point.  I love you too much; you fill my heart; you have occupied it entirely; there is no room for any one else.  Prefer any one to you!  Love any one more than you!  That will never, never be!”

“Oh, yes, it will.”

“Oh, no.  Love differently, perhaps, but more—­no.  He must not count upon that, this gentleman whom I expect, and who does not arrive.”

“Do not be afraid, my Betty, there is room in your heart for all whom you should love—­for your husband, for your children, and that without your old sister losing anything.  The heart is very little, but it is also very large.”

Bettina tenderly embraced her sister; then, resting her head coaxingly on Susie’s shoulder, she said: 

“If, however, you are tired of keeping me with you, if you are in a hurry to get rid of me, do you know what I will do?  I will put the names of two of these gentlemen in a basket, and draw lots.  There are two who at the last extremity would not be absolutely disagreeable.”

“Which two?”

“Guess.”

“Prince Romanelli.”

“For one!  And the other?”

“Monsieur de Montessan.”

“Those are the two!  It is just that.  Those two would be acceptable, but only acceptable, and that is not enough.”

This is why Bettina awaited with extreme impatience the day when she should leave Paris, and take up their abode in Longueval.  She was a little tired of so much pleasure, so much success, so many offers of marriage.  The whirlpool of Parisian gayety had seized her on her arrival, and would not let her go, not for one hour of halt or rest.  She felt the need of being given up to herself for a few days, to herself alone, to consult and question herself at her leisure, in the complete solitude of the country-in a word, to belong to herself again.