"It is a woman I want you to be, darling, a woman not faultless, but
human as myself, a wife to hold to me and love me despite my faults,
not an angel too bright and too perfect to be my other self."
"Dear Pierre," said she, pressing his arm, "I will be that woman to
you, full enough of faults to satisfy you. An angel I am not and
cannot be, nor wish to be until we go together to the spirit-land.
I am so glad I have a fault for which you can blame me, if it makes
you love me better. Indeed I own to many, but what is that one
fault, Pierre, which you cannot account for?"
"That you should have taken a rough soldier like me, Amelie! That
one so fair and perfect in all the graces of womanhood, with the
world to choose from, should have permitted Pierre Philibert to win
her loving heart of hearts."
Amelie looked at him with a fond expression of reproach. "Does that
surprise you, Pierre? You rough soldier, you little know, and I
will not tell you, the way to a woman's heart; but for one
blindfolded by so much diffidence to his own merits, you have found
the way very easily! Was it for loving you that you blamed me?
What if I should recall the fault?" added she, laughing.
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