Yet, as she walked along in her new happiness, she gauged Léon very fairly. She did not expect him to rise to heroic heights. She knew as well as any one that he was self-pleasing, often morally weak, shirking what was unpleasing to the extent of often shutting his eyes and ears. But she loved him. She had credited him at first with finer qualities; these had dropped from his figure, but she had not loved him less for loss of them. His carelessness had often hurt her, his reserve had nearly broken her heart, and through all her own love had never wavered; it held him, held him up perforce.
She said no more to him about the letter, fearful of frightening away his new-born confidence, and Léon himself seemed to have forgotten it. He displeased his mother by his smiles, his looks, at Nathalie. And when night came, and restless Raoul had been disposed of, husband and wife strolled out together. They went down to the bridge, and stood facing the western sky. The river ran dark under their feet, overhead spread black night, with here and there a faint gleam of stars, and the slender crescent of a new moon. A wind rustled through the low trees, a red light flung itself from a cottage door, and somebody stumbled out and across the bridge.
“Old Antoine,” said Léon, when he had passed.
“Impossible! He had really a bad accident to-day—lost a good deal of blood, and was feverish.”
“And now he has been drinking in honour of the occasion. He it was, I assure you.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Nathalie. She added, with a laugh, “Don’t tell Félicie!”