Many a man, inferior in a general way to Edouard Riviere, would have
made a sensible reply to this. Such as, "Oh, any friend of yours,
mademoiselle, must be welcome to me," or the like. But the proposal
caught Edouard on his foible, his vanity, to wit; and our foibles are
our manias. He was mortified to the heart's core. "She refuses to know
me herself," thought he, "but she will use my love to make me amuse that
old man." His heart swelled against her injustice and ingratitude,
and his crushed vanity turned to strychnine. "Mademoiselle," said he,
bitterly and doggedly, but sadly, "were I so happy as to have your
esteem, my heart would overflow, not only on the doctor but on every
honest person around. But if I must not have the acquaintance I value
more than life, suffer me to be alone in the world, and never to say a
word either to Dr. Aubertin, or to any human creature if I can help it."

The imperious young beauty drew herself up directly. "So be it,
monsieur; you teach me how a child should be answered that forgets
herself, and asks a favor of a stranger--a perfect stranger," added she,
maliciously.

Could one of the dog-days change to mid-winter in a second, it would
hardly seem so cold and cross as Rose de Beaurepaire turned from the
smiling, saucy fairy of the moment before. Edouard felt as it were a
portcullis of ice come down between her and him. She courtesied and
glided away. He bowed and stood frozen to the spot.

He felt so lonely and so bitter, he must go to Jacintha for comfort.

He took advantage of the ladies being with Dard, and marched boldly into
the kitchen of Beaurepaire.