“Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates Parisiennes.”

“Damn it all, then! send a friend—­a friend will do under the circumstances.”

“There’s Lampron.”

“The painter?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know Monsieur Charnot.  It would only be one stranger pleading for another.  My chances would be small.  What I want—­”

“Is a friend of both parties, isn’t it?  Well, what am I?”

“The very man!”

“Very well.  I undertake to ask for her hand!  I shall ask for the hand of the charming Jeanne for both of us; for you, who will make her happy; and for myself, who will not entirely lose her if she marries one of my pupils, one of my favorite graduates—­my friend, Fabien Mouillard.  And I won’t be refused—­no, damme, I won’t!”

He brought down his fist upon the table with a tremendous blow which made the glasses ring and the decanters stagger.

“Coming!” cried a waiter from below, thinking he was summoned.

“All right, my good fellow!” shouted M. Flamaran, leaning over the railings.  “Don’t trouble.  I don’t want anything.”

He turned again toward me, still filled with emotion, but somewhat calmer than he had been.

“Now,” said he, “let us talk, and do you tell me all.”

And we began a long and altogether delightful talk.

A more genuine, a finer fellow never breathed than this professor let loose from school and giving his heart a holiday—­a simple, tender heart, preserved beneath the science of the law like a grape in sawdust.  Now he would smile as I sang Jeanne’s praises; now he would sit and listen to my objections with a truculent air, tightening his lips till they broke forth in vehement denial.  “What!  You dare to say!  Young man, what are you afraid of?” His overflowing kindness discharged itself in the sincerest and most solemn asseverations.

We had left Juan Fernandez far behind us; we were both far away in that Utopia where mind penetrates mind, heart understands heart.  We heard neither the squeaking of a swing beneath us, nor the shouts of laughter along the promenades, nor the sound of a band tuning up in a neighboring pavilion.  Our eyes, raised to heaven, failed to see the night descending upon us, vast and silent, piercing the foliage with its first stars.  Now and again a warm breath passed over us, blown from the woods; I tasted its strangely sweet perfume; I saw in glimpses the flying vision of a huge dark tulip, striped with gold, unfolding its petals on the moist bank of a dyke, and I asked myself whether a mysterious flower had really opened in the night, or whether it was but a new feeling, slowly budding, unfolding, blossoming within my heart.

CHAPTER XVII

PLEASURES OF EAVESDROPPING

July 22d.

At two o’clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre, to tell him all the great events of yesterday.  We sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow of the movable curtain which divides the studio, as it were, into two rooms, among the lay figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes.  Lampron likes this chiaroscuro.  It rests his eyes.