“You will see her to-morrow,” M. Deshoulières said gravely. Was this the first thought of her who had been left so desolate? He bowed and went away quickly, not daring to trust himself longer. Fabien half followed him, and then came back and flung himself on a sofa.
“I don’t know that we should have let him go, after all,” he said, irresolutely.
“I hardly think you would have had much power to prevent him,” remarked the curé, with a grim smile, coming from the window, and ringing the bell for lights. He could not help despising the young man with his weak passionate nature, and yet he tried to keep up a conviction that he had been wronged.
“And so Thérèse is here,” said Fabien. He laughed a little to himself, and curled his moustache. “She had a spirit, had Thérèse, and her eyes were something to remember. Parbleu, though, a visit to that fever-hole is not too agreeable to contemplate.”
“Is Mademoiselle Veuillot your fiancée?” asked the curé, severely.
Fabien laughed again. “Fiancée? No, mon père, not altogether. We shall see.”
“It is possible that her interests also may have suffered.”
“Ah—yes—it is possible. But my uncle had not too great a love for Thérèse. I am curious to know how he has provided for her.”
“Yet I have understood that your disagreement with your uncle originated in your attachment for Mademoiselle Veuillot,” said the curé, facing round upon him sharply.
“Precisely,” answered Fabien, airily. “But then—what will you?—I was young, foolish—the truth was that I could not endure my old uncle’s régime in the office. I heard of an opening in Rio Janeiro, and I worked my way out. On the voyage I wished myself back a hundred times, I promise you, but once there, somehow or other, I found myself on my feet—fortune favoured me. I was getting weary of it, though, and this news came to me just in time through M. l’Abbé, but it is not a bad place after all. One sees the world.”