D’Argenton watched her from the corner of his eyes, gnawing his moustache with fury. She was very pretty that morning, a little pale from emotion and from a night of travel. D’Argenton was uneasy and restless; he began to regret having accompanied her, and felt embarrassed by the part he was playing.
When he saw the château, with its grounds and fountains, its air of wealth, he reproached himself for his own imprudence. “She will never return to Aulnettes,” he thought. At the end of the avenue he stopped the carriage. “I will wait here,” he said, abruptly; and added, with a sad smile, “Do not be long.”
Ten minutes later he saw Charlotte on the terrace with a tall and elegant-looking man. Then began for him a terrible anguish. What were they saying? Should he ever see her again? And it was that detestable boy that had given him all this disturbance. The poet sat on the fallen trunk of a tree, watching feverishly the distant door. Before him was outspread a charming landscape—wooded hills, sloping vineyards, and meadows overhung with willows; on one side a ruin of the time of Louis IX., and on the other, one of those châteaux common enough on the shores of the Loire. Just below him a sort of canal was in process of building. He watched the workmen in a mechanical sort of way; they were clothed in uniform, and seemed an organized body. He rose and sauntered toward them. The laborers were only children, and their reddened eyes and pale faces told the story of their confinement to the poorer quarters of the town.
“Who are these children?” questioned the poet.
“They belong to the penitentiary,” was the answer from the official who superintended them.
D’Argenton asked question after question, saying that he was intimately connected with a family whose only son had just plunged them into deep affliction.
“Send him to us,” was the curt reply, “as soon as he leaves the prison.”
“But I doubt if he goes to prison,” said D’Argenton, with a shade of regret in his voice; “the parents have paid the amount.”
“Well, then, we have another establishment—the Maison Paternelle. I have some of the circulars here in my pocket, and perhaps you would glance over them, sir.”
D’Argenton took the papers and turned back toward the house. The carriage was coming down the avenue, and soon Charlotte, her color heightened and her eyes bright with hope for her child, appeared.