“I,” said Paul, “was saying how well I love you—since the proprieties forbid my expressing my hopes to you.”
“Why?”
“I am afraid of myself.”
“Oh! you are too clever not to know how to set the gems of flattery. Would you like me to tell you what I think of you?—Well, you seem to me to have more wit than a man in love should show. To be Peas-blossom and at the same time very clever,” said she, looking down, “seems to me an unfair advantage. A man ought to choose between the two. I, too, am afraid.”
“Of what?”
“We will not talk like this.—Do not you think, mother, that there is danger in such a conversation when the contract is not yet signed?”
“But it will be,” said Paul.
“I should very much like to know what Achilles and Nestor are saying to each other,” said Natalie, with a glance of childlike curiosity at the door of the adjoining room.
“They are discussing our children, our death, and I know not what trifles besides,” said Paul. “They are counting out our crown-pieces, to tell us whether we may have five horses in the stable. And they are considering certain deeds of gift, but I have forestalled them there.”
“How?” said Natalie.
“Have I not given you myself wholly and all I have?” said he, looking at the girl, who was handsomer than ever as the blush brought up by her pleasure at this reply mounted to her cheeks.
“Mother, how am I to repay such generosity?”
“My dear child, is not your life before you? If you make him happy every day, is not that a gift of inexhaustible treasures? I had no other furniture.”
“Do you like Lanstrac?” asked Paul.
“How can I fail to like anything that is yours?” said she. “And I should like to see your house.”
“Our house,” said Paul. “You want to see whether I have anticipated your tastes, if you can be happy there? Your mother has made your husband’s task a hard one; you have always been so happy; but when love is infinite, nothing is impossible.”
“Dear children,” said Madame Evangelista, “do you think you can remain in Bordeaux during the early days of your marriage? If you feel bold enough to face the world that knows you, watches you, criticises you—well and good! But if you both have that coyness which dwells in the soul and finds no utterance, we will go to Paris, where the life of a young couple is lost in the torrent. There only can you live like lovers without fear of ridicule.”
“You are right, mother; I had not thought of it. But I shall hardly have time to get the house ready. I will write this evening to de Marsay, a friend on whom I can rely, to hurry on the workmen.”
At the very moment when, like all young men who are accustomed to gratify their wishes without any preliminary reflection, Paul was recklessly pledging himself to the expenses of a residence in Paris, Maître Mathias came into the room and signed to his client to come to speak with him.
“What is it, my good friend?” said Paul, allowing himself to be led aside.
“Monsieur le Comte,” said the worthy man, “the lady has not a sou. My advice is to put off this discussion till another day to give you the opportunity of acting with propriety.”
“Monsieur Paul,” said Natalie, “I also should like a private word with you.”
Though Madame Evangelista’s face was calm, no Jew in the Dark Ages ever suffered greater martyrdom in his cauldron of boiling oil than she is her violet velvet dress. Solonet had pledged himself to the marriage, but she knew not by what means and conditions he meant to succeed, and she endured the most dreadful anguish of alternative courses. She really owed her triumph perhaps to her daughter’s disobedience.
Natalie had put her own interpretation on her mother’s words, for she could not fail to see her uneasiness. When she perceived the effect of her advances, her mind was torn by a thousand contradictory thoughts. Without criticising her mother, she felt half ashamed of this manoeuvring, of which the result was obviously to be some definite advantage. Then she was seized by a very intelligible sort of jealous curiosity. She wanted to ascertain whether Paul loved her well enough to overlook the difficulties her mother had alluded to, and of which the existence was proved by Maître Mathias’ cloudy brow. These feelings prompted her to an impulse of honesty which, in fact, became her well. The blackest perfidy would have been less dangerous than her innocence was.
“Paul,” said she in an undertone, and it was the first time she had addressed him by his name, “if some difficulties of money matters could divide us, understand that I release you from every pledge, and give you leave to ascribe to me all the blame that could arise from such a separation.”
She spoke with such perfect dignity in the expression of her generosity, that Paul believed in her disinterestedness and her ignorance of the fact which the notary had just communicated to him; he pressed the girl’s hand, kissing it like a man to whom love is far dearer than money.
Natalie left the room.
“Bless me! Monsieur le Comte, you are committing great follies,” growled the old notary, rejoining his client.
But Paul stood pensive; he had expected to have an income of about a hundred thousand francs by uniting his fortune and Natalie’s; and however blindly in love a man may be, he does not drop without a pang from a hundred thousand to forty-six thousand francs a year when he marries a woman accustomed to every luxury.
“My daughter is gone,” said Madame Evangelista, advancing with royal dignity to where Paul and the notary were standing. “Can you not tell me what is going on!”
“Madame,” said Mathias, dismayed by Paul’s silence, and forced to break the ice,
