When Monsieur Longueville called for
the third time, Emilie believed it was chiefly for her sake. This
discovery gave her such intoxicating pleasure that she was startled as
she reflected on it. There was something in it very painful to her
pride. Accustomed as she was to be the centre of her world, she was
obliged to recognize a force that attracted her outside herself; she
tried to resist, but she could not chase from her heart the
fascinating image of the young man.
Then came some anxiety. Two of Monsieur Longueville's qualities, very
adverse to general curiosity, and especially to Mademoiselle de
Fontaine's, were unexpected modesty and discretion. He never spoke of
himself, of his pursuits, or of his family. The hints Emilie threw out
in conversation, and the traps she laid to extract from the young
fellow some facts concerning himself, he could evade with the
adroitness of a diplomatist concealing a secret. If she talked of
painting, he responded as a connoisseur; if she sat down to play, he
showed without conceit that he was a very good pianist; one evening he
delighted all the party by joining his delightful voice to Emilie's in
one of Cimarosa's charming duets. But when they tried to find out
whether he were a professional singer, he baffled them so pleasantly
that he did not afford these women, practised as they were in the art
of reading feelings, the least chance of discovering to what social
sphere he belonged.
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