“Of course I will make up to you in some way this little misunderstanding,” he added, changing his tone hastily.
“Oh, good Lord!” cried Rosalie under her breath. Then came a shower of new promises—the cross of commander in the Legion of Honor on the first of January next, the next vacancy in the Superior Council, the—the—Béchut tried to protest, just for decency’s sake, but said Numa: “Permit me, permit me, it’s only an act of justice—such men as you are too uncommon—”
Intoxicated with his own benevolence, stammering from sheer affectionateness—if Béchut had not gone Numa would have offered him his own portfolio next. But suddenly remembering the concert, he called to him from the door:
“I count on seeing you next Sunday, my dear professor; we are starting a series of little concerts, very unceremonious you know—the very ‘top of the basket’—”
Then returning to Rosalie, he said:
“Well, what do you think of it? I hope I have been firm enough!”
It was really so amusing that she burst into a peal of laughter. When he understood her amusement and that he had made a number of new promises, he seemed alarmed.
“Well, well, people are grateful to one all the same.”
She left him, smiling one of her old smiles, quite gay from her kind deed and perhaps above all delighted to find a feeling for him reviving in her heart that she had long thought dead.
“Angel that you are!” said Numa to himself as he watched her go, tears of tenderness in his eyes; and when Méjean came in to remind him of the waiting council: