beauty. However, I am but indifferently endowed with artistic feeling,
and had I been a painter, I could not have created more than a single
type, that which filled my whole soul; for in the course of my long life
only one woman has seemed to me really beautiful; and that woman was
Edmee.

For a few seconds I stood looking at her, so touchingly pale, sad yet
calm, a living image of filial piety, of power in thrall to affection.
Then I rushed forward and fell at her feet without being able to say a
word. She uttered no cry, no exclamation of surprise, but took my head
in her two arms and held it for some time pressed to her bosom. In this
strong pressure, in this silent joy I recognised the blood of my race,
I felt the touch of a sister. The good chevalier, who had waked with a
start, stared at us in astonishment, his body bent forward and his elbow
resting on his knee; then he said:

"Well, well! What is the meaning of this?"

He could not see my face, hidden as it was in Edmee's breast. She pushed
me towards him; and the old man clasped me in his feeble arms with a
burst of generous affection that gave him back for a moment the vigour
of youth.

I leave you to imagine the questions with which I was overwhelmed, and
the attentions that were lavished on me. Edmee was a veritable mother
to me. Her unaffected kindness and confidence savoured so much of heaven
that throughout the day I could not think of her otherwise than if I had
really been her son.

I was very much touched at the pleasure they took in preparing a big