"
"You are a sorcerer!" exclaimed Modeste.
"Neither will you find that sweet equality of feeling, that continual
sharing of each other's life, that certainty of pleasing which makes
marriage tolerable, if you take Canalis,--a man who thinks of himself
only, whose 'I' is the one string to his lute, whose mind is so fixed
on himself that he has hitherto taken no notice of your father or the
duke,--a man of second-rate ambitions, to whom your dignity and your
devotion will matter nothing, who will make you a mere appendage to
his household, and who already insults you by his indifference to your
behavior; yes, if you permitted yourself to go so far as to box your
mother's ears Canalis would shut his eyes to it, and deny your crime
even to himself, because he thirsts for your money. And so,
mademoiselle, when I spoke of the man who truly loves you I was not
thinking of the great poet who is nothing but a little comedian, nor
of the duke, who might be a good marriage for you, but never a
husband--"
"Butscha, my heart is a blank page on which you are yourself writing
all that you read there," cried Modeste, interrupting him.
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