"Yes, utterly ruined.Believe me, Marguerite," he said, taking her hand which he placed upon his heart, "I should fail of my duty if Idid not persist in this matter.Your interests alone--""Monsieur," said Marguerite, coldly withdrawing her hand, "the true interests of my family require me not to marry.My mother thought so.""Cousin," he cried, with the earnestness of a man who sees a fortune escaping him, "you commit suicide; you fling your mother's property into a gulf.Well, I will prove the devotion I feel for you: you know not how I love you.I have admired you from the day of that last ball, three years ago; you were enchanting.Trust the voice of love when it speaks to you of your own interests, Marguerite." He paused."Yes, we must call a family council and emancipate you--without consulting you," he added.
"But what is it to be emancipated?"
"It is to enjoy your own rights."
"If I can be emancipated without being married, why do you want me to marry? and whom should I marry?"Pierquin tried to look tenderly at his cousin, but the expression contrasted so strongly with his hard eyes, usually fixed on money, that Marguerite discovered the self-interest in his improvised tenderness.
"You would marry the person who--pleases you--the most," he said."Ahusband is indispensable, were it only as a matter of business.You are now entering upon a struggle with your father; can you resist him all alone?""Yes, monsieur; I shall know how to protect my brothers and sister when the time comes.""Pshaw! the obstinate creature," thought Pierquin."No, you will not resist him," he said aloud.
"Let us end the subject," she said.
"Adieu, cousin, I shall endeavor to serve you in spite of yourself; Iwill prove my love by protecting you against your will from a disaster which all the town foresees.""I thank you for the interest you take in me," she answered; "but Ientreat you to propose nothing and to undertake nothing which may give pain to my father."Marguerite stood thoughtfully watching Pierquin as he departed; she compared his metallic voice, his manners, flexible as a steel spring, his glance, servile rather than tender, with the mute melodious poetry in which Emmanuel's sentiments were wrapped.No matter what may be said, or what may be done, there exists a wonderful magnetism whose effects never deceive.The tones of the voice, the glance, the passionate gestures of a lover may be imitated; a young girl can be deluded by a clever comedian; but to succeed, the man must be alone in the field.If the young girl has another soul beside her whose pulses vibrate in unison with hers, she is able to distinguish the expressions of a true love.Emmanuel, like Marguerite, felt the influence of the chords which, from the time of their first meeting had gathered ominously about their heads, hiding from their eyes the blue skies of love.His feeling for the Elect of his heart was an idolatry which the total absence of hope rendered gentle and mysterious in its manifestations.Socially too far removed from Mademoiselle Claes by his want of fortune, with nothing but a noble name to offer her, he saw no chance of ever being her husband.Yet he had always hoped for certain encouragements which Marguerite refused to give before the failing eyes of her dying mother.Both equally pure, they had never said to one another a word of love.Their joys were solitary joys tasted by each alone.They trembled apart, though together they quivered beneath the rays of the same hope.They seemed to fear themselves, conscious that each only too surely belonged to the other.Emmanuel trembled lest he should touch the hand of the sovereign to whom he had made a shrine of his heart; a chance contact would have roused hopes that were too ardent, he could not then have mastered the force of his passion.And yet, while neither bestowed the vast, though trivial, the innocent and yet all-meaning signs of love that even timid lovers allow themselves, they were so firmly fixed in each other's hearts that both were ready to make the greatest sacrifices, which were, indeed, the only pleasures their love could expect to taste.
Since Madame Claes's death this hidden love was shrouded in mourning.
The tints of the sphere in which it lived, dark and dim from the first, were now black; the few lights were veiled by tears.
