And as he handed her another letter--"No, father dear, no, I beg you.
Pardon me the wrong that I have been doing you; I admire you and I love
you, dear papa, but leave me with the noble feeling of your supreme
kindness; I would rather not know any more of the little meannesses of
the world."
She climbed on her father's knees and covered his forehead with
kisses.
"Look," said Mme. Darbois, holding up a letter "eight pages from your
godfather."
Esperance jumped up laughing, "That I certainly shall not read."
"I am going to write to the Countess that I give up my art...." And
swift as a shadow she was gone.
The philosopher sat hesitating, his expression troubled. Had he the
right to compel this sacrifice, knowing, realizing, as he did, that
his child had based all the happiness of her life on the career she
was now voluntarily giving up for his sake? Germaine looked at him
questioningly.
"Do you believe, my dear, that I ought to let Esperance write to the
Countess, as she proposes? I fear that she is making this sacrifice to
gratify my vanity."
"Francois!" exclaimed Mme. Darbois indignantly.
"My pride, if you prefer it," he said. "But what is such a
satisfaction in comparison with the happiness of a life? To me it
seems very unjust!"
Germaine adored her husband and her daughter, but she believed more,
than in anything in the world, in the noble genius of the philosopher.
"Esperance's sacrifice," she said, "is very slight.
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