The Lesser Bourgeoisie. Оноре де Бальзак

you,” said the candid professor, sincerely.

      “What are you saying to each other?” asked Celeste, coming up.

      “My child,” said the pious woman, drawing her god-daughter down to her and kissing her on the forehead. “He said that you both loved me.”

      “Do not be angry with my presumption, mademoiselle. Let me do all I can to prove it,” murmured Felix. “Ah! I cannot help it, I was made this way; injustice revolts me to the soul! Yes, the Saviour of men was right to promise the future to the meek heart, to the slain lamb! A man who did not love you, Celeste, must have adored you after that sublime impulse of yours at table. Ah, yes! innocence alone can console the martyr. You are a kind young girl; you will be one of those wives who make the glory and the happiness of a family. Happy be he whom you will choose!”

      “Godmamma, with what eyes do you think Monsieur Felix sees me?”

      “He appreciates you, my little angel; I shall pray to God for both of you.”

      “If you knew how happy I am that my father can do a service to Monsieur Thuillier, and how I wish I could be useful to your brother—”

      “In short,” said Celeste, laughing, “you love us all.”

      “Well, yes,” replied Felix.

      True love wraps itself in the mysteries of reserve, even in its expression; it proves itself by itself; it does not feel the necessity, as a false love does, of lighting a conflagration. By an observer (if such a being could have glided into the Thuillier salon) a book might have been made in comparing the two scenes of love-making, and in watching the enormous preparations of Theodose and the simplicity of Felix: one was nature, the other was society—the true and the false embodied. Noticing her daughter glowing with happiness, exhaling her soul through the pores of her face, and beautiful with the beauty of a young girl gathering the first roses of an indirect declaration, Flavie had an impulse of jealousy in her heart. She came across to Celeste and said in her ear:—

      “You are not behaving well, my daughter; everybody is observing you; you are compromising yourself by talking so long to Monsieur Felix without knowing whether we approve of it.”

      “But, mamma, my godmother is here.”

      “Ah! pardon me, dear friend,” said Madame Colleville; “I did not notice you.”

      “You do as others do,” said the poor nonentity.