this movement of your sensibility which rushes from its yet unknown centre over your heart and mind, this happiness with which you think of Savinien, all is natural. But, my adored child, as our good Abbé Chaperon has told you, society demands the sacrifice of many natural inclinations. The destinies of men are different from those of women. I was able to choose Ursule Mirouët for my wife and go to her telling her how much I loved her; whilst a young girl belies her virtues by soliciting the love of the man she loves: the woman has not, like us, the means of pursuing in broad daylight the accomplishment of her desires. Besides, with her, with you all, and particularly with you, modesty is the insuperable barrier which guards the secrets of your heart. Your hesitation in confiding your first emotions to me is enough to tell me that you would endure the most cruel tortures rather than confess to Savinien—”
“Oh! yes!” she said.
“But, my child, you ought to do more; you ought to repress the impulses of your heart, and forget them.”
“Why?”
“Because, my little angel, you ought to love none but the man who is to be your husband; and, even if Monsieur Savinien de Portenduère loved you—”
“I have not yet thought of that.”
“Listen to me—even if he love you, and his mother were to ask me for your hand, I would not consent to this marriage until I had submitted
