Nothing could exceed the minute attention which Villemet paid to her, though all in good taste, but with an anxious, if not mournful air, as if he were appointed to watch over her health, and was not quite happy about it.
Alice received his attentions with perfect politeness, but her ears were evidently occupied with something else.
Tournier took no more notice of her than any
gentleman would naturally do to the lady of the house at a party of four. Almost all his conversation was addressed to Cosin, and consisted chiefly of references to happy days gone by, during their intercourse with each other. Each allusion ended with a sort of sigh, as if to say, “Ah, there will be no more of that now!”
“Upon my word, Cosin,” he cried, “if it were not for my sweet old mother, I would almost be a prisoner again to live near you.”
The blue eyes brightened a little. And there was someone who noticed it, and, oh! how he wished he had made the same remark.
To understand Tournier’s enthusiasm, we must know something of how a deeply sensitive nature is drawn toward the one who has saved his soul from death.
“Come, my friends,” said Cosin, “let us be merry while we can, which to my thinking is always, if we cast our future upon God. There is no happiness unalloyed with sorrow in this world. We must wait for that. I drink to the
perpetual amity of our two countries. God has made us neighbours: why should we quarrel? We have been fighting, but we have not been quarrelling. Let French and English be better friends than ever. And when the devil of ambition next arises in either country, and tempts us to disagree, let us bid him leave his foul work alone, for we, the people, are fast friends for ever.”
Next morning, the four went out for their last ride together. Alice and Villemet went first, and the others followed. As they passed the familiar spot where Villemet had spent so many weary days and nights, Alice remarked, how glad he must be that he was a free man once more.