France is the reason of the whole world.
England and Germany are romantic in their marriage customs,--though even
there noble families follow our customs. You certainly do not mean to
deny that your parents, who know life, who are responsible for your
soul and for your happiness, have no right to guard you from the
stumbling-blocks that are in your way? Good heavens!" he continued,
speaking half to himself, "is it their fault, or is it ours? Ought we
to hold our children under an iron yoke? Must we be punished for the
tenderness that leads us to make them happy, and teaches our hearts how
to do so?"

Modeste watched her father out of the corner of her eye as she listened
to this species of invocation, uttered in a broken voice.

"Was it wrong," she said, "in a girl whose heart was free, to choose for
her husband not only a charming companion, but a man of noble genius,
born to an honorable position, a gentleman; the equal of myself, a
gentlewoman?"

"You love him?" asked her father.

"Father!" she said, laying her head upon his breast, "would you see me
die?"

"Enough!" said the old soldier. "I see your love is inextinguishable."

"Yes, inextinguishable."

"Can nothing change it?"

"Nothing."

"No circumstances, no treachery, no betrayal? You mean that you will
love him in spite of everything, because of his personal attractions?
Even though he proved a D'Estourny, would you love him still?"

"Oh, my father! you do not know your daughter. Could I love a coward, a
man without honor, without faith?"

"But suppose he had deceived you?"

"He? that honest, candid soul, half melancholy? You are joking, father,
or else you have never met him."

"But you see now that your love is not inextinguishable, as you chose
to call it. I have already made you admit that circumstances could alter
your poem; don't you now see that fathers are good for something?"

"You want to give me a lecture, papa; it is positively l'Ami des Enfants
over again."

"Poor deceived girl," said her father, sternly; "it is no lecture of
mine, I count for nothing in it; indeed, I am only trying to soften the
blow."

"Father, don't play tricks with my life," exclaimed Modeste, turning
pale.

"Then, my daughter, summon all your courage. It is you who have been
playing tricks with your life, and life is now tricking you."

Modeste looked at her father in stupid amazement.

"Suppose that young man whom you love, whom you saw four days ago