bear the afflictions of this, world.  I do not ask you not to weep for me, for that would be putting too violent a constraint upon your nature, but do not weep over much.  Above all, Victorine, do not allow your sorrow to paralyse your actions.  You will have to act then, not only for yourself, but for your child—­for my daughter; and if you then give way to the violence of sorrow, who shall think and care for her?”

She laid her beautiful head upon his bosom, and wept, and promised, and prayed for him.  And when he had finished what he felt he had to say, what he wished to say once, and but once, before he left her, he became more cheerful, and seemed to have more spirit for his work than he had hitherto shewn.

“And so,” he said, after a while, “poor Marie is in love.”

“Nay; I did not say she was in love-not in the deep depth of absolute love—­but I think she is not indifferent to Henri:  were she truly and earnestly in love, she would have told me so.”

“Not indifferent to him, and yet not in love.  Faith, Victorine, I know not the difference; but you women are such adepts in the science, that you have your degrees of comparison in it.”

“Marie, then, has not yet reached the first degree, for hers is not even downright positive love; but I am sure she is fond of Henri’s society; and now, poor girl, she must give it up—­and probably for ever.”

“As you said a while since, Victorine, how should she not like his society?  I can fancy no man more fit to be the cynosure of a woman’s eye than Larochejaquelin.  He has that beauty which women love to look on:  the bold bright eye, the open forehead, the frank, easy smile, and his face is only a faithful index to his heart; he is as frank as brave, and yet as tender-hearted as he looks to be; he is specially formed to love and to be loved.”

“Poor Marie!  I grieve that you brought her from Durbelliere.”

“Not so, Victorine; this is the place for Marie now; indeed, dear girl, she knew that well herself.  The Marquis pressed her hard to stay, and I said nothing; but Marie insisted on coming home.  I thought Henri looked somewhat more sombre than is his wont, as he was leading her down the steps:  but he cannot, must not, think of love now, Victorine.  La Vendee now wants all his energies.”

“But you would not forbid him to love her, Charles?”

“I could forbid him nothing, for I love him as Joseph loved his younger brother Benjamin.”

“And he will be here now backwards and forwards, will he not?”

“Probably he will—­that is as circumstances may arise—­he is, at any rate, as likely to be at Clisson as Durbelliere.”

“He will be more likely, Charles, take my word for it; you cannot prevent their meeting; you cannot hinder them from loving each other.”

“Were the King upon his throne, it would be my greatest joy to give my sister to my friend, but now—­it is the same for all of us—­we must take the chance of these horrid times; and could they be taught to quench the warm feelings of their young hearts, it were well for both of them.  The cold, callous disposition would escape much misery, which will weigh down to the grave the loving and the generous.”