“The President! As if I should ever consent to Léon’s inviting him! We have had a queen at Poissy—”
“Not a very respectable one, was she!” inquired Nathalie, wickedly.
“Nathalie! I believe in your heart you are a radical. It all comes from your reading those dreadful books. And I am sure you will just speak to Léon as if it were a matter of no consequence, instead of pointing out to him seriously how much depends on it.”
She was almost crying, and Mme. Léon hastened to reassure her.
“Well, then,” she said, only half mollified, “there is to be a Home opened in about six weeks’ time at Douay, and our bishop has promised to attend. They will gather from all parts. It will be a magnificent function, and beyond a doubt his Grandeur should be invited to come here for it.”
“Ah,” said Nathalie, thoughtfully, “he is a good man, is he not?”
“A good man!” Félicie repeated, in amazement; “what extraordinary questions you ask! The very fact that he is monseigneur might tell you so much, I should think!”
“But it does not,” said Mme. Léon, in a quiet voice.
“My father did not like the Bishop of N, or the Bishop of X. But this one, our bishop, he said, had always tried to do his duty. I hope Léon may invite him. I should think he ought. Shall I go now and ask him?”
Dearly would Félicie have loved to have expatiated upon the sin of venturing to criticise a bishop, even perhaps of praising him in such measured terms, but her burning desire at the present moment was to insure an invitation being sent in time, and to obtain this she choked down her resentment.