“I am happy, very happy,” said Nathalie, smiling at her, “though it has nothing to do with monseigneur. Félicie, I am afraid that poor Henri Leblanc is in a bad way. He looks terribly ill.”
Her sister-in-law’s face stiffened.
“I have a very poor opinion of Henri. The abbé says he can make nothing of him, and his politics are a disgrace to the village.”
“But if he is ill?”
“It may bring him to a better mind.”
“Whatever he is,” cried Nathalie, warmly, “the poor man might certainly have something to help him back to health. Might I not ask for some soup?”
“It would displease my mother very much. You had better not interfere about the people, for naturally you don’t know them as we do, and it is the most worthless who appeal to you. That old Antoine!”
Happily, Félicie’s little narrownesses always ended by amusing her sister-in-law. The idea that a man’s opinions should stand in the way of having his hurts dressed was so comical that she began to laugh; and as for Henri, she made up her mind that her father should get him into the hospital at Tours. She had always money enough, too, for anything on which she had set her heart, for she never spent on herself the allowance that was hers. It was part of the bourgeoise nature, as Mme. de Beaudrillart often remarked, to find it almost impossible to spend money without fear of waste, and without regarding waste as sin. Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters had been economical from the good sense which adapts itself to circumstances, never from actual inclination. Nathalie really had the inclination, and was thrifty by nature. Even her father, personally so as much as any Frenchman of his class, was annoyed with her for not, as he said, adopting notions better suited to the Beaudrillarts, and finding pleasure in spending.
Besides, she was so happy this morning that small vexations could not touch her. There had been a sore struggle in her heart these last years, and aching sadness at which no one had ever guessed. It looked out of her honest eyes sometimes, but there was no one to read it, for even the man who loved her best had not given her the love which is unselfish enough to decipher signs, and it was the blank, hopeless wall which her heart had found in his which had caused her trouble. Now it was surely down. She had planted her first step on its ruins, she saw herself safely intrenched in the citadel within, which the greatness of her own love made her yet think of as a place infinitely more sacred and satisfying than it was.
She went away into the garden to dream of her new bliss by herself. The day was gloomy but quiet, and as she walked the rush of the river over its pebbly shoals came up to her ears. Down below, in the level, the vines hung, all but ready for the vintage, and women in great sabots and white caps clattered across the bridge. Behind, Poissy stood, grey and grave, in its nest of thick foliaged trees. But on Nathalie’s face the light of love was shining, the light of faithful, tender love. There was not a hard line left round her mouth, though, before this, it had seemed as if suffering had begun to grave them. The sweet nobility of her eyes was undisturbed, the youth of her face had reappeared. She cared little enough about the women at the château, strong-willed yet petty, less for the slights which came from them through the household; the kingdom she wanted was her husband’s love, that divine gift which, in spite of imperfection, in spite, alas, often, of the worthlessness of the giver, is the crown of a woman’s life.