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Not Great, But Happy
by
A very long time did not pass before Nina made a proposition to Blanche, that relieved, in some measure, the painful depression under which she labored. It was this. Pierre had, from a child, exhibited a decided talent for painting. This talent had been cultivated by the uncle, and Pierre was, already, quite a respectable artist. But he needed at least a year’s study of the old masters, and more accurate instruction than he had yet received, before he would be able to adopt the painter’s calling as one by which he could take an independent position in society as a man. Understanding this fully, Nina said that Pierre must go to Florence, and remain there a year, in order to perfect himself in the art, and that she would claim the privilege of bearing all the expense. For a time, the young man’s proud spirit shrunk from an acceptance of this generous offer; but Nina and the mother overruled all his objections, and almost forced him to go.
It may readily be understood, now, why Nina ceased to render accurate accounts of her charitable expenditures to her father. The baron entertained not the slightest suspicion of the real state of affairs, until about a year afterward, when a fine looking youth presented himself one day, and boldly preferred a claim to his daughter’s hand. The old man was astounded.
“Who, pray, are you,” he said, “that presume to make such a demand?”
“I am the son of a peasant,” replied Pierre, bowing, and casting his eyes to the ground, “and you may think it presumption, indeed, for me to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter. But a peasant’s love is as pure as the love of a prince; and a peasant’s heart may beat with as high emotions.”
“Young man,” returned the baron, angrily, “your assurance deserves punishment. But go–never dare cross my threshold again! You ask an impossibility. When my daughter weds, she will not think of stooping to a presumptuous peasant. Go, sir!”
Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion. He had been weak enough to hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, and give him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter’s hand. But this repulse dashed every hope the earth.
As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servant for Nina. She was not in her chamber–nor in the house. It was nearly two hours before she came home. When she entered the presence of her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not right with her.
“Who was the youth that came here some hours ago?” he asked, abruptly.
Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer.
“Did you know that he was coming?” said the father.
The maiden’s eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remained sealed.
“A base-born peasant! to dare–“
“Oh, father! he is not base! His heart is noble,” replied Nina, speaking from a sudden impulse.
“He confessed himself the son of a peasant! Who is he?”
“He is the son of Blanche Delebarre,” returned Nina, timidly. “He has just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit. There is nothing base about him, father!”
“The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach me and claim the hand of my child! And worse, that child to so far forget her birth and position as to favor the suit! Madness! And this is your good Blanche!–your guide in all works of benevolence! She shall be punished for this base betrayal of the confidence I have reposed in her.”
Nina fell upon her knees before her father, and with tears and earnest entreaties pleaded for the mother of Pierre; but the old man was wild and mad with anger. He uttered passionate maledictions on the head of Blanche and her presumptuous son, and positively forbade Nina again leaving the castle on any pretext whatever, under the penalty of never being permitted to return.