“It’s all up with your fête, mother! We are in quarantine, that’s very evident.”
These words grieved the gentle Elisabeth. Her beautiful face, always adorned by a loving smile, seemed overcast.
At the other end of the room, above the confused babel of sounds, Largillière’s voice reiterated:
“Not like that! That’s not the way! We shall never be ready in time.”
“Do you hear?” said the Baronne. “He says we shall not be ready in time. Suppose we postpone the fête if it’s not going to be a success.”
“You are soft, mother! But I’m not blaming you. It’s your nature. You are a forget-me-not and will always remain one. I am a fighting man, a strong man. I’m pretty well played out, as far as my health goes, but—I shall struggle on to the end.”
“My child!”
“Don’t let that worry you. I’m done for, but I shall struggle on.”
René Chartier’s voice flowed forth like a limpid fountain:
“On pense, on pense encore