The Argosy — page 320: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Curé’s Sister. 299 own development. Oh, I see this strange, rare girl will yet be happy !” Does she mean to educate her? I said to myself in wonder, being greatly puzzled by her language and her interest in Léonie Valmine. I might have asked her this question, but the door opened, and a young man of about twenty-two entered the room. ‘My son, Monsieur de Villet,” said Madame, and as he bowed to to me, she, standing behind him, placed her finger on her lip. I thought of the letter instantly, and, blunderer that I was, I fancied I saw the whole story clear as in a crystal. “This young man loves Léonte,” I said; ‘‘and his vt intend- ing to inflict on the girl the agony of an eternal parting—perhaps to save her from worse sorrow—will console her with the routine of a school, and the drudgery of accomplishments.” Thus thinking, I looked upon Monsieur de Villet with a jaundiced eye. He was handsome, tall, and well-made, but his face was an ordinary face; there was no stamp of power on it, no. expression, beyond a little pride, a little carelessness, a little self-conceit. <A smooth face, that would take the world easily, never striking itself against the roughnesses and sorrows a harsh face would meet with and surmount. And as for love—whoever loved him would beat their heart against marble—selfish, polished marble, too happy in its insensi- bility to understand that human nerves can quiver beneath a careless blow. ‘“‘Téonie is mad to love such a man,” I said, gathering up my port- folio, lest he should look init. ‘‘ But then, women always love such men, so why do I wonder at it?” The young Count talked well, throwing a sort of fascinating grace over his chatter of horses, Paris clubs, and barrack-life. Then, in con- versation, I discovered he was not Madame’s son, but the only child of her first husband, the Comte de Villet. When the rain cleared, and I went away, he walked with me courteously to the gate, and I ventured to say, ‘‘I am sorry Madame has no child of her own; she strikes me as having a great heart.” ““Oh, but I am the same to her as her own son,” answered the young man, gracefully enough. ‘‘And I never remember any other mother. She has been the best of mothers to me.” In his eyes, this was all that was necessary to make her happy; she had fulfilled her duty to him! He lifted his hat, smiling like a gracious prince, and strolled away whistling, with the most careless air in the world playing all about him, even in the swing of his cane. IIT, I wENT to the Curé’s house the next day, and studied with zew eyes —1if I may use the expression—the three faces presented to my con- templation. And as I looked on Madame Valmine’s homely, unin- ECORnNIClOOkkS (GO