"You?" she said; "you give me the most precious of all friendships,--a
feeling as disinterested as that of a mother for her child. Compare
yourself to no one; for even my father is obliged to be devoted to
me." She paused. "I cannot say that I love you, in the sense which men
give to that word, but what I do give you is eternal and can know no
change."
"Then," said Butscha, stooping to pick up a pebble that he might kiss
the hem of her garment, "suffer me to watch over you as a dragon
guards a treasure. The poet was covering you just now with the
lace-work of his precious phrases, the tinsel of his promises; he
chanted his love on the best strings of his lyre, I know he did. If,
as soon as this noble lover finds out how small your fortune is, he
makes a sudden change in his behavior, and is cold and embarrassed,
will you still marry him? shall you still esteem him?"
"He would be another Francisque Althor," she said, with a gesture of
bitter disgust.
"Let me have the pleasure of producing that change of scene," said
Butscha. "Not only shall it be sudden, but I believe I can change it
back and make your poet as loving as before,--nay, it is possible to
make him blow alternately hot and cold upon your heart, just as
gracefully as he has talked on both sides of an argument in one
evening without ever finding it out.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354