joy.  I have already had a thousand thoughts on this subject, which I can not yet tell you, but which I shall confess to God this night.  I believe—­I am convinced that my daughter, when I have done all that I can for her, will make an excellent wife for you.  She will benefit you, and be an honor to you, and will, I hope, one day thank me with all her heart; for I perceive already what she wishes, and what she loves.  You can not know, you can not even suspect—­but I—­I know it.  There is already a woman in that child, and a very charming woman—­much more charming than her mother, Monsieur, I assure you.”

Madame de Tecle stopped suddenly, the door opened, and Mademoiselle Marie entered the room brusquely, holding in each hand a gigantic doll.

M. Camors rose, bowed gravely to her, and bit his lip to avoid smiling, which did not altogether escape Madame de Tecle.

“Marie!” she cried out, “really you are absurd with your dolls!”

“My dolls!  I adore them!” replied Mademoiselle Marie.

“You are absurd!  Go away with your dolls,” said her mother.

“Not without embracing you,” said the child.

She laid her dolls on the carpet, sprang on her mother’s neck, and kissed her on both cheeks passionately, after which she took up her dolls, saying to them: 

“Come, my little dears!” and left the room.

“Good heavens!” said Madame de Tecle, laughing, “this is an unfortunate incident; but I still insist, and I implore you to take my word.  She will have sense, courage, and goodness.  Now,” she continued in a more serious tone, “take time to think over it, and return to give me your decision, should it be favorable.  If not, we must bid each other adieu.”

“Madame,” said Camors, rising and standing before her, “I will promise never to address a word to you which a son might not utter to his mother.  Is it not this which you demand?”

Madame de Tecle fixed upon him for an instant her beautiful eyes, full of joy and gratitude, then suddenly covered her face with her two hands.

“I thank you!” she murmured, “I am very happy!” She extended her hand, wet with her tears, which he took and pressed to his lips, bowed low, and left the room.

If there ever was a moment in his fatal career when the young man was really worthy of admiration, it was this.  His love for Madame de Tecle, however unworthy of her it might be, was nevertheless great.  It was the only true passion he had ever felt.  At the moment when he saw this love, the triumph of which he thought certain, escape him forever, he was not only wounded in his pride but was crushed in his heart.

Yet he took the stroke like a gentleman.  His agony was well borne.  His first bitter words, checked at once, alone betrayed what he suffered.

He was as pitiless for his own sorrows as he sought to be for those of others.  He indulged in none of the common injustice habitual to discarded lovers.