He had the air of having
tasted widely, curiously, of life in his day, prosperous as he seemed
now, that had left its mark upon him. His voice, which usually took an
intonation that his friends found supercilious, grew very tender in
addressing this little French girl, with her quaint air of childish
dignity.
'Marie-Yvonne, foolish child, I will not hear one word more. You are a
little heretic; and I am sorely tempted to seal your lips from uttering
heresy. You tell me that you love me, and you ask me to let you go, in
one breath. The impossible conjuncture! Marie-Yvonne,' he added, more
seriously, 'trust yourself to me, my child! You know, I will never give you
up. You know that these months that I have been at Ploumariel, are worth
all the rest of my life to me. It has been a difficult life, hitherto,
little one: change it for me; make it worth while. You would let morbid
fancies come between us. You have lived overmuch in that little church,
with its worm-eaten benches, and its mildewed odour of dead people, and
dead ideas. Take care, Marie-Yvonne: it had made you serious-eyed, before
you have learnt to laugh; by and by, it will steal away your youth, before
you have ever been young.
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