There was no change in the expression of M. Villefort, but he was strangely pallid as he made his reply.
“It is impossible for me to explain, Madame.”
“She is absolutely attenuated,” cried Madame» “She is like a spirit. Take her to the country—to Normandy—to the sea—somewhere! She will die if there is not a change. At twenty, one should be as plump as a young capon.”
A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upon a lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come to spend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk—about people, about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly.
“And Arthur says”—she began.
Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done.
“Arthur!” she repeated. For the second time Jenny felt a little embarrassed.
“I mean M. Villefort,” she said, hesitantly.
She quite forgot what she had been going to say, and for a moment or so regarded the fire quite gravely. But naturally this could not last long. She soon began to talk again, and it was not many minutes before she found M. Villefort in her path once more.
“I never thought I could like a Frenchman so much,” she said, in all enthusiastic good faith. “At first, you know,” with an apologetic half laugh, “I wondered why you had not taken an American instead, when there were so many to choose from, but now I understand it. What beautiful tender things he can say, Bertha, and yet not seem in the least sentimental. Everything comes so simply right from the bottom of his heart. Just think what he said to me yesterday when he brought me those flowers. He helps me with mine, and it is odd how things will cheer up and grow for him, I said to him, ‘Arthur, how is it that no flower ever fails you?’ and he answered in the gentlest quiet way, ‘Perhaps because I never fail them. Flowers are like people,—one must love and be true to them, not only to-day and to-morrow, but every day—every hour—always.’ And he says such things so often. That is why I am so fond of him.”