Well might they call him "the fool," poor Sylvestre Ker! Not that he had
less brains than another man,--on the contrary, he was now very
learned--but love crazes him who places his affections on an unworthy
object.
Sylvestre Ker's little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihan's and fifty
Matheline's; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were perfectly
just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls lowest.
When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower, Pol commenced to sigh heavily,
and said,--
"What a pity! What a great, great pity!"
"What is a pity?" asked Sylvestre Ker.
"It is a pity to miss such a rare opportunity."
Sylvestre Ker exclaimed, "What opportunity? So you were listening to my
conversation with Matheline?"
"Why, yes," replied Pol. "I always have an ear open to hear what
concerns you, my true friend. Seven years! Shall I tell you what I
think? You would only have twelve months to wait to go with your mother
to another Christmas Mass."
"I have promised," said Sylvestre.
"That is nothing: if your mother loves you truly, she will forgive
you."
"If she loves me!" cried Sylvestre Ker. "Oh, yes, she loves me with her
whole heart."