“Ah! at last,” cried Dard: “come in!”
The door was slowly opened, and two lovely faces appeared at the threshold. The demoiselles De Beaurepaire wore a tender look of interest and pity when they caught sight of Dard, and on the old woman courtesying to them they courtesied to her and Dard. The next moment they were close to him, one a little to his right, the other to his left, and two pair of sapphire eyes with the mild lustre of sympathy playing down incessantly upon him. How was he? How had he slept? Was he in pain? Was he in much pain? tell the truth now. Was there anything to eat or drink he could fancy? Jacintha should make it and bring it, if it was within their means. A prince could not have had more solicitous attendants, nor a fairy king lovelier and less earthly ones.
He looked in heavy amazement from one to the other. Rose bent, and was by some supple process on one knee, taking the measure of the wounded foot. When she first approached it he winced: but the next moment he smiled. He had never been touched like this—it was contact and no contact—she treated his foot as the zephyr the violets—she handled it as if it had been some sacred thing. By the help of his eye he could just know she was touching him. Presently she informed him he was measured for a list shoe: and she would run home for the materials. During her absence came a timid tap to the door; and Edouard Riviere entered. He was delighted to see Josephine, and made sure Rose was not far off. It was Dard who let out that she was gone to Beaurepaire for some cloth to make him a shoe. This information set Edouard fidgeting on his chair. He saw such a chance as was not likely to occur again. He rose with feigned nonchalance, and saying, “I leave you in good hands; angel visitors are best enjoyed alone,” slowly retired, with a deep obeisance. Once outside the door, dignity vanished in alacrity; he flew off into the park, and ran as hard as he could towards the chateau. He was within fifty yards of the little gate, when sure enough Rose emerged. They met; his heart beat violently. “Mademoiselle,” he faltered.
“Ah! it is Monsieur Riviere, I declare,” said Rose, coolly; all over blushes though.
“Yes, mademoiselle, and I am so out of breath. Mademoiselle Josephine awaits you at Dard’s house.”
“She sent you for me?” inquired Rose, demurely.
“Not positively. But I could see I should please her by coming for you; there is, I believe, a bull or so about.”
“A bull or two! don’t talk in that reckless way about such things. She has done well to send you; let us make haste.”
“But I am a little out of breath.”
“Oh, never mind that! I abhor bulls.”