You ask of whom or of what you should be jealous?
Be jealous, then, of all those vague and romantic aspirations that torment youthful imaginations; be jealous of the wind, of the tempest, of the barren moors, of the rugged cliffs, of my old manor, of my words and of my ruins--for Julia adores all that.

Be jealous, above all, of that ardent worship she has avowed to her father's memory, and which still absorbs her--I have lately had a proof of the fact--the keenest of her passion." "You do me good," rejoined Pierre de Moras, breathing more freely, "and yet I had already thought of all these things.

But if she does not love now, she will some day--and suppose it should not be me! Were she to bestow upon another all that she refuses me! my friend," added the count, whose handsome features turned pale, "I would kill her with my own hand!" "So much for being in love," said Lucan; "and I, am I nothing more to you, then ?" "You, my friend," said Moras with emotion, "you see my confidence in you! I have revealed to you weaknesses of which I am ashamed.

Ah! why have I ever known any other feeling than that of friendship! Friendship alone returns as much as it receives; it fortifies instead of enervating; it is the only passion worthy of a man.

Never forsake me, my friend; you will console me, whatever may happen." The bell that was ringing for breakfast called them back to the chateau.
Julia pretended being tired and ailing.