But there was nothing mysterious about the arrangements of the match
which Madame Leonie had promoted. There was nothing peculiar, either. It
was a very appropriate match, commending itself extremely to the young
lady's mother (the father was dead) and tolerable to the young lady's
uncle--an old emigre lately returned from Germany, and pervading, cane
in hand, a lean ghost of the ancien regime, the garden walks of the
young lady's ancestral home.
General D'Hubert was not the man to be satisfied merely with the woman
and the fortune--when it came to the point. His pride (and pride aims
always at true success) would be satisfied with nothing short of love.
But as true pride excludes vanity, he could not imagine any reason why
this mysterious creature with deep and brilliant eyes of a violet colour
should have any feeling for him warmer than indifference. The young lady
(her name was Adele) baffled every attempt at a clear understanding on
that point. It is true that the attempts were clumsy and made timidly,
because by then General D'Hubert had become acutely aware of the number
of his years, of his wounds, of his many moral imperfections, of his
secret unworthiness--and had incidentally learned by experience the
meaning of the word funk.
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