“Your father was hoping for Pauline’s sake—He hasn’t declared his intentions then?”
“What! Malignon!” said she, as though astonished and offended. And then with a gesture of annoyance she added, “Oh! leave him alone; he’s cracked! How happy I am to be home again!”
Without any apparent transition, she thereupon broke into an amazing outburst of tenderness, characteristic of her bird-like nature. She threw herself on her husband’s breast and raised her face towards him. To all seeming they had forgotten that they were not alone.
Jeanne’s eyes, however, never quitted them. Her lips were livid and trembled with anger; her face was that of a jealous and revengeful woman. The pain she suffered was so great that she was forced to turn away her head, and in doing so she caught sight of Rosalie and Zephyrin at the bottom of the garden, still gathering parsley. Doubtless with the intent of being in no one’s way, they had crept in among the thickest of the bushes, where both were squatting on the ground. Zephyrin, with a sly movement, had caught hold of one of Rosalie’s feet, while she, without uttering a syllable, was heartily slapping him. Between two branches Jeanne could see the little soldier’s face, chubby and round as a moon and deeply flushed, while his mouth gaped with an amorous grin. Meantime the sun’s rays were beating down vertically, and the trees were peacefully sleeping, not a leaf stirring among them all. From beneath the elms came the heavy odor of soil untouched by the spade. And elsewhere floated the perfume of the last tea-roses, which were casting their petals one by one on the garden steps. Then Jeanne, with swelling heart, turned her gaze on her mother, and seeing her motionless and dumb in presence of the Deberles, gave her a look of intense anguish—a child’s look of infinite meaning, such as you dare not question.
But Madame Deberle stepped closer to them, and said: “I hope we shall see each other frequently now. As Jeanne is feeling better, she must come down every afternoon.”
Hélène was already casting about for an excuse, pleading that she did not wish to weary her too much. But Jeanne abruptly broke in: “No, no; the sun does me a great deal of good. We will come down, madame. You will keep my place for me, won’t you?”
And as the doctor still remained in the background, she smiled towards him.
“Doctor, please tell mamma that the fresh air won’t do me any harm.”
He came forward, and this man, inured to human suffering, felt on his cheeks a slight flush at being thus gently addressed by the child.
“Certainly not,” he exclaimed; “the fresh air will only bring you nearer to good health.”