"Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is to
go about converting lost women? Do you think that God has given such
a grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should have any room for
enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end of this marvellous cure,
and what will you think of what you are saying to-day by the time you
are forty? You will laugh at this love of yours, if you can still laugh,
and if it has not left too serious a trace in your past. What would you
be now if your father had had your ideas and had given up his life
to every impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly in
convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, and do
not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this woman; your father
entreats you."
I answered nothing.
"Armand," continued my father, "in the name of your sainted mother,
abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than you think. You
are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are twenty-four; think of
the future. You can not always love this woman, who also can not always
love you. You both exaggerate your love. You put an end to your whole
career. One step further, and you will no longer be able to leave the
path you have chosen, and you will suffer all your life for what you
have done in your youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or two
with your sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will soon
heal you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your mistress
will console herself; she will take another lover; and when you see what
it is for which you have all but broken with your father, and all but
lost his love, you will tell me that I have done well to come and
seek you out, and you will thank me for it. Come, you will go with me,
Armand, will you not?" I felt that my father would be right if it had
been any other woman, but I was convinced that he was wrong with regard
to Marguerite. Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these last words
was so kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer.
"Well?" said he in a trembling voice.
"Well, father, I can promise nothing," I said at last; "what you ask
of me is beyond my power. Believe me," I continued, seeing him make
an impatient movement, "you exaggerate the effects of this liaison.
Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what you think. This
love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on the contrary, of
setting me in the right direction. Love always makes a man better,
no matter what woman inspires it. If you knew Marguerite, you would
understand that I am in no danger. She is as noble as the noblest of
women. There is as much disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity in
others."