“Hélas, je sais un chant d’amour
Triste ou gai tour à tour;”
an old melancholy Breton song that had somehow been wafted across from, the quaint wild province of hills and chestnut trees to these broad unromantic corn plains. Thérèse, who had not heard it before, never forgot the little sad air. She heard the song, and the voices, and the door opening; but for the first moment it was all confused. It was her own name which recalled her; her own name in Fabien’s voice.
“Ah, Thérèse, at last we meet! Believe me that I am enchanted to renew our acquaintance. You have not quite forgotten me, I flatter myself.”
She raised her eyes, not to his but to Monsieur Deshoulières’. One piteous, appealing glance—what was this?—acquaintance—forgotten? Three years of hungering and hoping, and could this be her greeting at the end? He with an overwhelming pity in his heart might not help her by look, or sign, or word. Face to face, heart to heart, these two must show each other the story of their lives.
“You have come at last, Fabien,” she said, faintly.
“After all, yes. I have had enough of South America, as you may imagine. It was a little more amusing than the old bureau at Rouen, but it was becoming ennuyant. Variety before all. Life requires to be tasted like wine, a sip here and a sip there before one decides. Now I shall try the charms of Paris. And you? have you remained here since my uncle’s death? A triste place, is it not?”
And she had loved him! By some subtile force of sympathy, Max knew that she was suffering a sharper pang than any which had come to him. He was standing with the curé where they could not see them, but he could hear the light frivolous voice, the heartless words. He had loved in vain, but she had loved unworthily. There is no sting so sharp as that sting. And outside, in the sunny balcony, old Nannon was crooning over her refrain—
“Hélas, je sais un chant d’amour,
Triste ou gai tour à tour:
Ce chant qui de mon coeur s’élève,
D’ou vient qu’en pleurant je l’achève!”
Thérèse was very pale, but she had got back her self-possession.
“I am sure that poor M. Moreau felt your departure.”