Luckily
for him, the miracle took place. Vautrin came in in high spirits, and
at once read the hearts of these two young creatures whom he had
brought together by the combinations of his infernal genius, but his
deep voice broke in upon their bliss.
"A charming girl is my Fanchette
In her simplicity,"
he sang mockingly.
Victorine fled. Her heart was more full than it had ever been, but it
was full of joy, and not of sorrow. Poor child! A pressure of the
hand, the light touch of Rastignac's hair against her cheek, a word
whispered in her ear so closely that she felt the student's warm
breath on her, the pressure of a trembling arm about her waist, a kiss
upon her throat--such had been her betrothal. The near neighborhood of
the stout Sylvie, who might invade that glorified room at any moment,
only made these first tokens of love more ardent, more eloquent, more
entrancing than the noblest deeds done for love's sake in the most
famous romances. This _plain-song_ of love, to use the pretty
expression of our forefathers, seemed almost criminal to the devout
young girl who went to confession every fortnight. In that one hour
she had poured out more of the treasures of her soul than she could
give in later days of wealth and happiness, when her whole self
followed the gift.
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