“Monsieur Lampron, in these delicate matters I have decided for the future to leave my daughter entirely free.  Although my happiness is at stake almost as entirely as hers, I shall not say a word save to advise.  In accordance with this resolve I communicated Flamaran’s proposal to her.”

“Well?”

“I expected she would refuse it.”

“But she said ’Yes’?”

“She did not say ‘No;’ if she had, you can guess that I should not be here.”

At this reply I quite lost my head, and was very near tearing aside the curtain, and bursting forth into the studio with a shout of gratitude.

But M. Charnot added: 

“Don’t be too sure, though.  There are certain serious, and, perhaps, insurmountable obstacles.  I must speak to my daughter again.  I will let your friend know of our final decision as soon as I can.  Good-by, Monsieur.”

Lampron saw him to the street, and I heard their steps grow distant in the passage.  A moment later Sylvestre returned and held out both hands to me, saying: 

“Well, are you happy now?”

“Of course I am, to a certain extent.”

“‘To a certain extent’!  Why, she loves you.”

“But the obstacles, Sylvestre!”

“Nonsense!”

“Perhaps insurmountable—­those were his words.”

“Why, obstacles are the salt of all our joys.  What a deal you young men want before you can be called happy!  You ask Life for certainties, as if she had any to give you!”

And he began to discuss my fears, but could not quite disperse them, for neither of us could guess what the obstacles could be.

August 2d.

After ten days of waiting, during which I have employed Lampron and M. Flamaran to intercede for me, turn and turn about; ten days passed in hovering between mortal anguish and extravagant hopes, during which I have formed, destroyed, taken up again and abandoned more plans than I ever made in all my life before, yesterday, at five o’clock, I got a note from M. Charnot, begging me to call upon him the same evening.

I went there in a state of nervous collapse.  He received me in his study, as he had done seven months before, at our first interview, but with a more solemn politeness; and I noticed that the paper-knife, which he had taken up from the table as he resumed his seat, shook between his fingers.  I sat in the same chair in which I had felt so ill at ease.  To tell the truth, I felt very much the same, yesterday.  M. Charnot doubtless noticed it, and wished to reassure me.

“Monsieur,” said he, “I receive you as a friend.  Whatever may be the result of our interview, you may be assured of my esteem.  Therefore do not fear to answer me frankly.”

He put several questions to me concerning my family, my tastes, and my acquaintance in Paris.  Then he requested me to tell the simple story of my boyhood and my youth, the recollections of my home, of the college at La Chatre, of my holidays at Bourges, and of my student life.