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 *ing, more to be respected than vain Narcissus languishing, after all, but for the mere reflection of himself? Is not that a true and faithful worship which seeks only the elevation of its idol, though its own crushed body may be exacted to raise the pedestal, if but by half a foot? Do you believe—I ask you, my cousin, in the utmost truth and sincerity—do you believe there breathes a man on earth so completely consecrated to your interests as myself?"

"You have always been a kind counsellor—and—and—an affectionate kinsman," answered the Marquise, a little confused; adding, with an air of frankness that became her well—"Come! Abbé, you are a good friend, neither more nor less, staunch, honest, constant. You always have been, you always will be. Is it not so?"

His self-command was perfect. His face betrayed neither disappointment, vexation, nor wounded pride. His voice retained just so much of tremor as was compatible with the warm regard of friendship, yet not too little to convey the deeper interest of love. He did not approach his cousin by an inch. He sat back in the arm-chair, outwardly composed and tranquil, yet he made it appear that he was pleading a subject of vital importance both to her welfare and his own.

"Pass over me, madame!" he exclaimed, throwing both his white hands up with a conclusive gesture. "Walk over my body without scruple if it will keep you dry-shod. Why am I here; nay, why do I exist at all but to serve you—and yours? Nevertheless it is not now a question of the daughter's destiny—that will arrive in course of time—it is of the mother I would speak. For the mother I would plead, even against myself. What temptation is there in the world like ambition? What has earth to offer compared to its promises? The draught of love may be, nay, I feel too keenly must be, very sweet, but what bitter drops are mingled in the cup! Surely I know it; but what matters its taste to me? the Abbé! the priest! Marquise, you have a future before you the proudest woman in Europe might envy. That fair hand might hold a sceptre, that sweet brow be encircled by a crown. Bah! they are but baubles, of course," continued the Abbé, relapsing without a moment's warning into his usual tone; "the one would make your arm ache and the other your head; nevertheless, my cousin, you could endure