“But in seeing her whom you love return to life and strength, your whole longing is not yet satisfied, you still wish to mould her life and character.

  “She is beautiful. Then to her beauty must be added grace.

  “She is good. Then must you teach her the ethics of goodness.

  “She is intellectual. Then must you lead her to cultivate her mind.

  “From hour to hour, from thought to thought, from idea to idea, you form her mind, you guide her heart, you mould her soul. How beautiful she seems to you even now, and therefore how everyone else must admire her.

  “She hesitates for others, but obeys your lightest word.

  “She lisps? no, she talks.

  “She spells? no, she reads.

  “You make yourself a child like her, and are surprised to find that Perrault’s fairy tales are far more interesting than Homer.

  “An illustrious scholar, a famous poet, a noted statesman, whilst walking in your garden, discusses with you some of the most abstract questions of science, the grandest theories of poetry, or the most subtle deductions in politics. He thinks you wonderfully attentive to what he is saying, you incline your head and seem to be considering these combinations, these theories, these calculations.

  “Poor statesman! poor poet! poor scholar 1

  “If he only knew, you are in thought miles away from what he is speaking to you about, all that you see is your darling child playing in a neighbouring garden-path, and your only fear is, that running heedlessly, she may fall into that hateful pond, or that the dews of the evening may give her a chill.

  “For you never forget that her mother died, when only twenty-two, from one of those relentless diseases which never allow their victim to escape.

  “Meanwhile your Madeleine is growing, her mind is broadening, her imagination developing, she understands your meaning when you speak to her of poetry, of nature, of God. She is growing to love you otherwise than from mere instinct; already she is praised by everyone who knows her.

  “She is pronounced charming by all; but, that she may lack nothing, is it not likewise needful for her to be rich? You want nothing for yourself, but for her the best is not too good.

  “Therefore, to work! For her sake turn ambitious and miserly, make a crown of your fame for her, a treasure of your toil. State-bonds are uncertain, invest money for her in this rich farm; two short years’ work, and it will be hers.

  “To be wealthy is not sufficient, she must have luxury; her dainty little feet can scarcely bear her weight, therefore she must have a carriage, that will cost you a month’s economy; why, it is not worth speaking about.

  “If, poor father, you are tired in body, one look from her will rest you; if weary in mind, one smile will comfort you.

  “Now that she has a farm, and a carriage, she must have jewels.

  “Where is the father who would not wear himself out, body and soul, for his daughter’s fair adorning? Each wrinkle on your brow has bought her a pearl; each white hair on your head is the cost of a ruby; only a few more drops of your blood and her casket will be complete. Thus at the sacrifice of five or six years out of your whole life, your daughter will be as richly attired as a queen.

  “Besides, all these efforts, all this care, all this labour, is so much pleasure to you, and there is not long to wait for the reward; only a few months now, and the child will be a woman! What bliss, when at last her mind understands your every thought, her heart the full depth of your love!

  “Then she will be to you friend, confidante, companion; she will be far more than this, no earthly feeling will mar your love for her, or hers for you; she will be an angel whom God has permitted to visit earth awhile.

  “Yes! only a little more patience and you will reap what you have sown, your privations will bring you back untold wealth, and all your troubles will be changed into infinite joy.

  “And lo! it is at this moment that a stranger passes by, sees your daughter, whispers three words into her ear, and at these three words she loves this stranger more than you; she leaves you for this stranger, and in this stranger’s hands she places her whole life, which is your life.

  “Yes! such is the law of nature; nature looks to the future.

  “And what of you?... You! Never breathe a word of your pain; press your son-in-law’s hand with a smiling face. Son-in-law! rather, I should say this thief, who robs you of your happiness; else others will say of you — :

  “‘Ho, ho. So Sganarelle does not wish his daughter Lucinde to marry Clitandre.’

  “Has not Molière written a terrible comedy on this subject, ‘L’amour Médecin,’ a comedy, where, as in all Molière’s plays, gaiety is but a mark covering a breaking heart?

  “Ah! What do lovers mean when they talk of jealousy? What is the fury of the Moor of Venice, compared with the despair of Brabantio or Sachetto.

  “Lovers! have they for twenty long years merged their life in that of the adored one?

  “After having created her, have they twenty times over lost and rescued her?

  “Can she be to them what she is to us poor fathers, their blood, their soul, their child? Their child! yes! that says all.

  “She leaves them for another, and they cry aloud: It is a crime! But she had first deserted us for them, and they thought it natural enough!

  “And yet I have not come to the worst of all, that for us our grief and despair are irreparable; but in losing their love, these lovers still retain the present, and look forward to the future. But we poor fathers! we fathers have to bid farewell to future, present, past, everything. Lovers are young, fathers are old.

  “They are at their first love, we at our last emotion.

  “If a husband be wronged or a lover betrayed, he will console himself with a hundred other mistresses, twenty subsequent passions will make these men forget their first love.

  “But where can a father find another daughter?

  “How dare these lovesick youths compare their despair to ours?

  “Lovers die, where fathers sacrifice themselves; their love is one of pride, ours of devotion; they love their wives or their mistresses for their own. gratification.

  “We love our daughters for their own sakes. Therefore let us submit to this last sacrifice, the most cruel of all. But what matters? were it a mortal wound, we must accept it; let not selfishness stain the thing that is most disinterested, most merciful, most divine on earth, — a father’s love. Let us cherish more tenderly this daughter, who now turns from us; let us become even kinder, as she grows more indifferent; let us even love him whom she loves, give her gladly to him who robs us of her.

  “If we are sad, at least let us be generous. Is it not God’s will, God who loves those who turn from Him, God who is none other but our Father.

  “Therefore, in two words, Amaury shall wed Madeleine, unless....

  “Oh God! I dare write no more!”

  “And, in truth, at these words the pen dropped from Monsieur d’Avrigny’s fingers, he heaved a profound sigh, and hid his face in his hands.

  CHAPTER VI.

  AT this moment the door of his study opened, and a young girl came in to the room on tip-toe, drew near to Monsieur d’Avrigny, and after looking at him for a moment with an expression of sadness evidently foreign to her usually laughing face, she touched him lightly on the shoulder.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny started and raised his head. “Ah! it is you, my dear Antoinette,” said he, “you are welcome.”

  “I wonder if you will be of that same opinion long, dear uncle?”

  “And what should make me change towards you, dear child?”

  “Because I am going to scold you.”

  “You! scold me?”

  “Yes! I!”

  “Pray what have I done that you should scold me?”

  “My dear uncle, I wish to speak to you seriously.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes! so seriously that I scarcely dare —

  “Antoinette, the niece I love, does not dare to speak to me? What can she have to say, then?”

  “Alas! dear uncle, something which neither befits my age nor my position.”

  “Speak on, Antoinette. I know that your gaiety hides a thoughtful mind, and beneath your light-heartedness I have often found you the wisest of us all; speak — especially if you come to speak to me of my daughter.”

  “Well! uncle, you are right; it is of her I wish to speak.”

  “And what have you to say?”

  “I must tell you, dear, good uncle! — Oh! you will forgive me, I pray and beseech you, — but I must tell you that, in the greatness of your love, you will kill Madeleine.”

  “I kill her! great heavens! what do you mean?”

  “I mean, dear uncle, that your lily — :hat is your name for her, is it not? — I mean that your lily is white and fragile, and that, crushed between the great love you both have for her, she will be broken.”

  “I do not understand you, Antoinette,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny.

  “Oh yes! uncle dear, you understand ne only too well,” said the young girl clasping her two arms round the doctor’s neck. “Yes! in spite of what you say, you do understand me. I know I understand you!”

  “You understand me, Antoinette?” cried Monsieur d’Avrigny, with an expression on his face which looked like fear.

  “Yes!”

  “Impossible!”

  “My dear uncle,” she replied, with a smile of such deep melancholy that it was hard to understand how it could rest on such laughing lips, “my dear uncle, you cannot blind the eyes of those who love; I have read your secret in your heart.”

  “And what secret have you found there?”

  For one moment Antoinette hesitated.

  “Do not be afraid to speak frankly,” said he, — ” you are keeping me in suspense.”

  Antoinette put her mouth to Monsieur d’Avrigny’s ear, and whispered:

  “You are jealous!”

  “I!” exclaimed Monsieur d’Avrigny.

  “Yes!” the girl continued, “and it is this jealousy that makes you so unjust.”

  “My God!” cried Monsieur d’Avrigny with bent head, “I thought that this was known only to you and me.”

  “Well! what is there in this to alarm you so, uncle dear? jealousy is certainly an ugly passion, but one may overcome it. Have I not also felt jealous of Amaury?”‘

  “You I jealous of Amaury!”

  “Yes !” answered Antoinette, bending her head in turn, “yes! because he deprived me of my sister; for when he was there, Madeleine had eyes for no one else.”

  “Then you also have felt what I suffer?”

  “Yes! the same thing, or much about the same. Well! I have conquered myself sufficiently to be able to come to you now, and say — Uncle! they are devoted to each other; you must give your consent to their marriage, for if you separate them they will die.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny shook his head, and without saying a word in reply, pointed with his finger to the last lines he had just written, and Antoinette read aloud:

  “Therefore in three months Amaury shall wed Madeleine, unless — Ah! God! I dare write no more — .”

  “Dear uncle,” said Antoinette, “take courage, she has not coughed once.”

  “Good Heavens! “Monsieur d’Avrigny exclaimed, looking at his niece in profound amazement, “the girl reads my every thought!”

  “Yes! dear, good, darling uncle. Yes! I understand well all the fond tenderness, all the wealth of love in your heart. But, listen to me, must we not reconcile ourselves to the thought that some day Madeleine will marry and leave us? And since this must be, tell me, is it not best that her choice should fall on Amaury rather than on anyone else? What is for his happiness can never be a misfortune for us, and is it right that we should grudge him so great a joy? No! on the contrary, let them be happy in each other’s love. Even then you will not be left alone, father dear; Antoinette will still be with you, the child of your dear sister, your little girl who loves you, and you alone, and who will never leave you. I know that I can never be to you what Madeleine is; but I will be like a daughter to you, only a daughter who is neither rich nor beautiful, like Madeleine; a daughter, rest assured, whom no one will love. And even if anyone did, had she ten times Madeleine’s grace and beauty, she, I swear, would never love anyone; she will devote her life to you, she will comfort you and you will comfort her.”

  “But,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “is not Philip Auvray in love with you, and do you not love him?”

  “Oh! my dear uncle,” Antoinette answered reproachfully. “Oh, how... have you ever...”

  “Well! well! dear child, let us say nothing more about it. Yes! I shall do as you wish, which is, after all, only what I had resolved to do. But, at least, Amaury must declare his intentions; supposing after all we were mistaken; if he should not love Madeleine!”

  “Ah! there is no mistake, dear father. Alas! he loves her! you and I know that but too well!”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny made no reply, because he, too, had the same conviction as Antoinette. At this moment the study door opened, and Joseph, Monsieur d’Avrigny’s confidential servant, informed him that the valet of Amaury, Count de Léoville, asked permission to give into his own hand a letter from his master.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny and Antoinette exchanged a look, which plainly said that they both already knew what the letter contained.

  Then, with an effort made even more apparent by Antoinette’s sad smile. Monsieur d’Avrigny said:

  “Joseph, bring me the letter, and tell Germain to wait for a reply.”

  Five minutes afterwards the letter was in Monsieur d’Avrigny’s hands, who looked at it without speaking, unable to summon up courage even to break the seal.

  “Come, dear uncle, rouse yourself,” said Antoinette, “open it and read what he says.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny mechanically obeyed, broke open the letter, quickly scanned its contents, read it a second time, then passed the letter to Antoinette, who pushed it aside with her hand, murmuring:

  “Dear uncle, I can guess its contents.”

  “Yes! that is true! “Monsieur d’Avrigny answered bitterly, replying to Antoinette as Hamlet did to Polonius — ‘words, words, words.’

  “Is his letter then only empty words to you? “Antoinette replied hastily, taking it from her uncle and hurriedly looking it over.

  “Yes! only words!” replied Monsieur d’Avrigny; “but it is with words that these clever phrasemongers, these elegant rhetoricians, supplant us in our children’s affections. We love them and ask for nothing in return, and they choose this eloquence in preference to us.”

  “But, uncle,” Antoinette gravely replied, returning the letter to Monsieur d’Avrigny, “do not deceive yourself. Amaury loves Madeleine with a deep, loyal, true love. I too have read this letter, and I tell you that it is a letter written not from the head, but straight from the heart.”

  “Therefore, Antoinette...?”

  She handed a pen to her uncle, who took it and wrote this single line:

  “Dear Amaury, come to me to-morrow at eleven, “Your father, “LEOPOLD D’AVRIGNY.”

  “And why not to-night?” asked Antoinette, who watched him write the note.

  “Because it would be too much excitement for her in one day. All that you need tell her, Antoinette, is that I have written to him this evening, and you think he is to come in the morning.”

  And summoning Germain, Monsieur d’Avrigny gave him the answer for which he had told him to wait.

  CHAPTER VII.

  NEXT day, Madeleine awoke with the sun and the birds, or rather when the sun and birds of Paris awake, at nine o’clock in the morning.

  She rang for her maid to open the windows.

  A large jessamine in full bloom, climbed against the wall, and she often drew the long trailing branches into her bedroom, revelling in their delicate perfume.

  Like most nervous people, Madeleine was fond of scents, although they were not good for her; she now asked to have some jessamine brought in.

  As to Antoinette, she was already walking in the garden, dressed in a simple muslin gown.

  She enjoyed such perfect health that she was allowed to do many things which were forbidden to her more delicate cousin.

  Madeleine was still in bed, well protected from the slightest draught, and obliged to have the flowers brought to her; whilst bright, healthy Antoinette was darting from flower to flower like a bird of the meadows, fearing neither morning breeze nor evening dews. There- ‘fore, though Madeleine was richer and more beautiful than Antoinette, she often envied her this exuberant health.

  But to-day, instead of going from flower to flower like the butterflies and the bees, Antoinette walked thoughtfully along in sad and pensive mood.

  As Madeleine raised herself up in bed, she followed her cousin anxiously with her eyes, and as Antoinette disappeared for a moment on nearing the house, only to reappear a little further on, the young girl sank back on her pillows with a sigh.

  “What is the matter with my darling?” asked Monsieur d’Avrigny, who, knowing that she was awake, had softly opened the door, and had been a silent witness to the struggle against envy in his daughter’s usually unselfish nature.

  “The matter, dear father, is that I think Antoinette a very lucky girl; she is perfectly free, whilst I am for ever hampered. For me, the noonday sun is too hot, and the morning and evening air too cold. What use are my feet, which long to join her in her rambles? I am like a poor hot-house plant doomed always to breathe the same atmosphere. Is it because I am ill, father?”

  “No, my dear child; but you are naturally weak and delicate; you have guessed right, you are like a hot-house plant. But you must remember, dear, that the flowers which we keep under glass are those which we prize and cherish the most. What more can they desire? Have not these flowers the same advantages as their more hardy companions? Have they not equally the light of heaven, the warmth of the sun? All it is true are under glass, but this glass protects them from the wind and rain, which buffet and bruise the other flowers.”