The Ink Stain
Page 116At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made no reply, he added: "I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?"
"Yes, Monsieur Flamaran."
"Isn't she a paragon?"
"She is."
"As sensible as she is tender-hearted?"
"So I believe."
"And as clever as she is sensible?"
"That is my opinion."
"I know nothing about her means."
"Don't make any mistake; she's a rich woman. Do you think you're too young to marry?"
"No."
"Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate engagement?"
"I trust she is not."
"I'm quite sure she is not. She is free, I tell you, as free as you. Well, why don't you love her?"
"But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!"
He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. He was so agitated that he could not speak--choking with joyful emotion, as if he had been Jeanne's father, or mine.
After a minute or so, he drew himself up in his chair, reached out, put a hand on each of my shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I might fly away.
"So you love her, you love her! Good gracious, what a business I've had to get you to say so! You are quite right to love her, of course, of course--I could not have understood your doing otherwise; but I must say this, my boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attractions, you know what will happen."
"Yes, I ought to ask for her at once."
"To be sure you ought."
"Alas! Monsieur Flamaran, who is there that I can send on such a mission for me? You know that I am an orphan."
"But you have an uncle."
"You might make it up again, on an occasion like this."
"Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates Parisiennes."
"Damn it all, then! send a friend--a friend will do under the circumstances."
"There's Lampron."
"The painter?"
"Yes, but he doesn't know Monsieur Charnot. It would only be one stranger pleading for another. My chances would be small. What I want--"