“It is not the part of a brave man to fear shadows,” he said. “M. Deshoulières, will twelve o’clock be agreeable to you?”
Max bowed.
“At your own house?”
“I think not. I would suggest the Cygne.”
“Good. Before you go, may I trouble you with one question?” said the curé, whose suspicions and whose impressions were pulling him different ways.
“Certainly.”
“At the beginning of this interview you remarked upon that condition of M. Moreau’s will which forbade the advertisement of the bequest to his nephew, that it appeared unaccountable to you at the time. I gather from that, monsieur, that a solution has since presented itself to you. If I am not mistaken, may I inquire the nature of this solution?”
Ah, Thérèse, waiting and watching, not knowing yet who was so near! Ah, faithful heart, that never faltered in its purpose, nor suffered its own pain to stand before her happiness! Ah, true, patient, noble love, that gave his face the glory that it wore!
“Monsieur Saint-Martin,” he said, turning from the curé, and speaking to the young man, “I believe that your uncle, in spite of his words, loved you above all others. I believe he regretted the harshness which had separated you and Mademoiselle Veuillot, and desired in a certain manner to atone for it. He may have thought that a voluntary appeal on your part would be a test of the sincerity of your attachment. At all events, it appears to me that the provisions of his will, which were intended to keep Mademoiselle Veuillot in Charville, and to oblige you to receive your inheritance in the same town, could tend to no other purpose.”
“Ah, by the way, Thérèse!” said Fabien, lightly. “Is Thérèse in Charville?”