Added to that painful certainty he now more than dreaded a similar
though a slighter folly in Miss Euphemia.
Can a man see himself the daily object of a pair of melting eyes,
hear everlasting sighs at his entrance and departure, day after day
receive tender though covert addresses about disinterested love, can
he witness all this, and be sincere when he affirms it is the
language of indifference? If that be possible, the Count Sobieski has
no pretensions of modesty. He comprehended the "discoursing" of Miss
Euphemia's "eye;" also the tendency of the love-sick mottoes which,
under various excuses, she put into his hand; and with many a pitying
smile of contempt he contemplated her childish absurdity.
A few days prior to that in which she made this appointment with
Thaddeus, she had presented to him another of her posies, which ran
thus: "Frighted love, like a wild beast, shakes the wood in which it
hides."
Thaddeus almost laughed at the oddity of the conceit.
"Do, dear Mr. Constantine," cried she, "translate it into the
sweetest French you can; for I mean to have it put into a medallion,
and to give it to the person whom I most value on earth!"
There was something so truly ridiculous in the sentence, that,
reluctant to allow even Miss Euphemia to expose herself so far, he
considered a moment how he should make anything so bad better, and
then said, "I am afraid I cannot translate it literally; but surely,
madam, you can do it yourself!"
"Yes; but I like your French better than mine; so pray oblige me.
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