The imagination of Pierre Philibert had revelled in the romantic
visions that haunt every boy destined to prominence, visions kindled
by the eye of woman and the hope of love.
The world is ruled by such dreams, dreams of impassioned hearts, and
improvisations of warm lips, not by cold words linked in chains of
iron sequence,--by love, not by logic. The heart with its passions,
not the understanding with its reasoning, sways, in the long run,
the actions of mankind.
Pierre Philibert possessed that rich gift of nature, a creative
imagination, in addition to the solid judgment of a man of sense,
schooled by experience and used to the considerations and
responsibilities of weighty affairs.
His love for Amelie de Repentigny had grown in secret. Its roots
reached down to the very depths of his being. It mingled,
consciously or unconsciously, with all his motives and plans of
life, and yet his hopes were not sanguine. Years of absence, he
remembered, work forgetfulness. New ties and associations might
have wiped out the memory of him in the mind of a young girl fresh
to society and its delights.
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