"You drew a picture which made me feel what a worth--orth--orthless mortal I am, and this incited me to throw off the garment of slothfulness, and put on armor for the battle of life."
"So be it! Now tell us what you have determined upon."
"My unfortunate imped--ed--ediment is my great drawback. Maurice hopes to become a lawyer; but that profession would be out of the ques--es--estion for me who have no power to utter my ideas. I could not enter the army, for what kind of an officer could I make? How should I ever manage to say to a soldier, 'Go and brave death for your coun--oun--ountry'? I should find it easier to do myself than to say it. Some diplomatic position I _might_ possibly fill. As speech, according to Talleyrand, was given to men to disguise their thoughts, a man who st--st--stammers is not in much danger of making known his private medita--a--ations."
"That is ingenious reasoning," replied Madeleine. "I hope something will grow out of it."
"It is grow--ow--ing already. Yesterday, at the Château de Tremazan, I had a long interview with the Marquis de Fleury. He expects to be sent as ambassador to the United States. We are old friends. We talked, and I tol--ol--old"--
"You told him your views," said Madeleine, aiding him so quietly and naturally that her assistance was scarcely noticeable. "And what was concluded upon? for your countenance declares that you have concluded upon something. If the marquis goes to America, you will perhaps accompany him?"
"As secretary?" cried Madeleine. "That will be an admirable position. But America--ah! it is a long, long distance from Brittany! This is good news for you; but there are two persons to whom it will cause not a little pain."
"To who--o--om?" inquired Gaston, with suppressed agitation.
"Mademoiselle Ber--er--ertha! Will _she_ heed my absence? She--she--she,--will she?" asked Gaston, confusedly.
"Yes--but take care; if you let me see how deeply that idea affects you, you will fail to play the diplomat in disguising your thoughts, for I shall divine your secret."
"My secret,--what--what secret? What is it you divine? What do you imagine? I mean."
"That you love Bertha,--love her as she deserves to be loved?"
"I? I?" replied M. de Bois, trying to speak calmly; but, finding the attempt in vain, he burst forth: "Yes, it is but too true; I love her with my whole soul; I love her passionately; love her despairingly,--ay, _despairingly_!"