I am tempted to describe Berthe Leuillet to you as she entered our
salon that afternoon in a white frock, with a basket of roses in her
little hands, but I know very well that no description of a girl ever
painted her to anybody yet. Suffice it that she was beautiful as an
angel, that her voice was like the music of the spheres--more than all,
that one felt all the time, "How good she is, how good, how good!"
I suppose the impression that she made upon me was plainly to be seen,
for when she had gone, my mother remarked, "You did not say much. Are
you always so silent in girls' company?" "No," I answered; "I do not
often meet such girls."
But afterwards I often met Berthe Leuillet.
Never since I was a boy had I stayed at Vernon for so long as now;
never had I repented so bitterly as now the error of my ways. I loved,
and it seemed to me sometimes that my attachment was reciprocated, yet
my position forbade me to go to monsieur Leuillet and ask boldly for
his daughter's hand. While I had remained obscure, painters of my
acquaintance, whose talent was no more remarkable than my own, had
raised themselves from bohemia into prosperity. I abused myself, I
acknowledged that I was an idler, a good-for-nothing, I declared that
the punishment that had overtaken me was no more than I deserved. And
then--well, then I owned to Berthe that I loved her!
Deliberately, of course, I should not have done this before seeking her
father's permission, but it happened in the hour of our "good-bye", and
I was suffering too deeply to subdue the impulse.
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