Oh, if I were only your age; yes, I, poor Patience; and if I were able,
without feeling stifled, to shut myself up in a room for only two hours
a day; and if all those I met were anxious to teach me; if they said to
me, 'Patience, this is what was done yesterday; Patience, this is what
will be done to-morrow.' But, enough! I have to find out everything
myself, and there is so much that I shall die of old age before finding
out a tenth part of what I should like to know. But, listen: I have yet
another reason for wishing you to marry Edmee."
"What is that, good Monsieur Patience?"
"This La Marche is not the right man for her. I have told her so--yes,
I have; and himself too, and the abbe, and everybody. He is not a man,
that thing. He smells as sweet as a whole flower-garden; but I prefer
the tiniest sprig of wild thyme."
"Faith! I have but little love for him myself. But if my cousin likes
him, what then, Patience?"
"Your cousin does not like him. She thinks he is a good man; she thinks
him genuine. She is mistaken; he deceives her, as he deceives everybody.
Yes, I know: he is a man who has not any of this (and Patience put his
hand to his heart). He is a man who is always proclaiming: 'In me behold
the champion of virtue, the champion of the unfortunate, the champion
of all the wise men and friends of the human race, etc., etc.' While
I--Patience--I know that he lets poor folk die of hunger at the gates
of his chateau.
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