At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished down the corkscrew stair.

“We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges,” M. Flamaran went on.

“Apparently that’s all off?”

“Quite off.”

“You were within your rights; but now, why not a Parisienne?”

“Yes, indeed; why not?”

“Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way against Parisiennes?”

“I?  Not the least.”

“I used to be, but I’ve got over it now.  They have a charm of their own, a certain style of dressing, walking, and laughing which you don’t find outside the fortifications.  For a long time I used to think that these qualities stood them in lieu of virtues.  That was a slander; there are plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who are angels.”

At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made no reply, he added: 

“I know one, at least:  Jeanne Charnot.  Are you listening?”

“Yes, Monsieur Flamaran.”

“Isn’t she a paragon?”

“She is.”

“As sensible as she is tender-hearted?”

“So I believe.”

“And as clever as she is sensible?”

“That is my opinion.”

“Well, then, young man, if that’s your opinion—­excuse my burning my boats, all my boats—­if that’s your opinion, I don’t understand why—­Do you suppose she has no money?”

“I know nothing about her means.”

“Don’t make any mistake; she’s a rich woman.  Do you think you’re too young to marry?”

“No.”

“Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate engagement?”

“I trust she is not.”

“I’m quite sure she is not.  She is free, I tell you, as free as you.  Well, why don’t you love her?”

“But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!”

“Why, then, I congratulate you, my boy!”

He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand.  He was so agitated that he could not speak—­choking with joyful emotion, as if he had been Jeanne’s father, or mine.

After a minute or so, he drew himself up in his chair, reached out, put a hand on each of my shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I might fly away.

“So you love her, you love her!  Good gracious, what a business I’ve had to get you to say so!  You are quite right to love her, of course, of course—­I could not have understood your doing otherwise; but I must say this, my boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attractions, you know what will happen.”

“Yes, I ought to ask for her at once.”

“To be sure you ought.”

“Alas!  Monsieur Flamaran, who is there that I can send on such a mission for me?  You know that I am an orphan.”

“But you have an uncle.”

“We have quarrelled.”

“You might make it up again, on an occasion like this.”