* * * * * * *
One morning, not so very long ago, Madame de Crancé came to me with her eyes shining.
“Little Thibaut,” said she, “thou hast a great heart. Yet—though doubtless thou wert right to insist that the husband should be the bread-winner—it has grieved me to stand by and watch my own particular gift rusting from disuse. Well, sir, for thy rebuke I have at last a surprise for thee. Behold!” and with that she fetched a canvas from behind her back, where she had been secreting it, and presented it to my view.
“Is it not like?” she said, her throat swelling with joy and pride.
I made my eyes two O’s,—I “hedged,” as the sportsmen say.
“It is, indeed, ma mie. It is like nothing in the world except, of course——”
I stopped, sweating with apprehension. She relieved me at once.
“Ah!” she cried, “is it not baby himself—the dear, sweet rogue! I threw all my soul into it for thy sake.”
“Carinne!” I exclaimed, passionately grateful; “I knew I could not be mistaken.”
[The End]