"I love your cousin; you know that, don't you?"
Maurice nodded.
"I have loved her for a year, and you see me here, still hesitating to
speak to her father."
"Why?"
"Because I know that she does not love me.... Oh! I believe," he went on
sadly, "I hope, at least that she does feel some friendship for me--but
if she declines my proposal... what else would ever matter to me?"
Maurice came and sat down beside him.
"Your mother?" he queried.
"My mother loves Esperance devotedly, and she has a very real
admiration for your uncle as well. She is very religious. M. Darbois's
philosophical books, which deny nothingness and proclaim the ideal,
have been a great comfort to her in her voluntary solitude. She would
be very happy to know if I could be happy."
"But," objected Maurice. "I am afraid that my cousin does not wish to
give up her art--the stage."
"Yes, I am aware of that, but my mother and I have not the stupid
prejudices of the multitude. Undoubtedly, this union, under such
conditions, would estrange us from many of our so called friends, and
I should have to give up the diplomatic service, but that would not
trouble me. No," he went on, resting his hand on Maurice's knee, "the
hard part would be to see her every evening surrounded by the
admiration of so many men. I suffered when she was playing at the
Vaudeville, and then she was scarcely more than a child, but I heard
them all commenting on her beauty and it was all I could do to control
myself.
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