"Ah! But no! I believe she is a most excellent woman."
"Only a little sleepy—hein? Well, I will change my mind about that offer I refused. I will send Riette every day to learn needlework and Italian with her cousins. She will teach more than she learns, by the bye! Yes, our little guetteuse shall watch for you, Angelot. But on one condition—that she knows no more than she does already. You can ask her what questions you please, of course—but no letters or messages, mind; I trust to your honour. I will not have the child made a go-between in my cousin's house, or mixed up with matters too old for her. She knows enough already to do what you want, to tell you that Mademoiselle Hélène is safe and well. I will have nothing more, you understand. But I think you will be wise to keep away, and this plan may make absence bearable."
He turned his anxious, smiling face to Angelot. And thus the entire reconciliation was brought about; the two understood and loved each other better than ever before, and Riette, as she had herself suggested, was to take her part in helping Angelot.
Neither Monsieur Urbain, in his great discretion, nor his wife, in her extreme dislike of Lancilly and all connected with it, chose to say a word either to Angelot or his uncle about the strange little scene that had closed the dinner-party. It was better forgotten, they thought. And Angelot was too proud, too conscious of their opinion, to speak of it himself.
So the three talked that night about Sonnay-le-Loir and the markets there, and about the neighbours that Urbain had met, and about certain defects in one of his horses, and then about the coming vintage and its prospects.
Urbain fetched down a precious book, considerably out of date now, the Théâtre d'Agriculture of Olivier de Serres, Seigneur du Pradel, and began studying, as he did every year, the practical advice of that excellent writer on the management of vineyards. The experience of Angelot, gained chiefly in wandering round the fields with old Joubard, differed on some points from that of Monsieur de Serres. He argued with his father, not at all in the fashion of a young man hopelessly in love; but indeed, though Hélène was the centre of all his thoughts, he was far from hopeless.
There was a bright spring of life in Angelot, a faith in the future, which kept him above the most depressing circumstances. The waves might seem overwhelming, the storm too furious; Angelot would ride on the waves with an unreasoning certainty that they would finally toss him on the shore of Paradise. Had not Hélène kissed him? Could he not still feel the sweet touch of her lips, the velvet softness of that pale cheek? Could his eyes lose the new dream in their sleepy dark depths, the dream of waking smiles and light in hers, of bringing colour and joy into that grey, mysterious world of sadness! No; whatever the future might hold—and he did not fear it—Angelot could say to his fate:—
"To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day."
There was such a glory of happiness behind the present clouds that the boy had never seemed to his mother more light-hearted. She listened to his talk with his father, the smiling dispute as to what age of the moon was the most lucky for beginning the vintage. Monsieur de Serres, with a kindly word of indulgence for those who thought much of the moon, contented himself with recommending fine weather and a convenient day. Joubard, and Angelot with him, held to the old country superstition of the waning moon.
This would throw the vintage later than Monsieur Urbain wished, and he pointed out that De Serres was a sensible man and a philosopher. Silly fancies, lunatical, astrological, were not much in his line.