Unawares: A Story of an Old French Town - Frances Mary Peard

“Is there any hope?” he said again, bending over her, and speaking in a low, quick, eager tone.

And then into his outstretched hands she put her own...

Before they went home she told him all that had troubled her. And he, in his turn, told her something. He showed her the little dull balcony between the trees, where once he had pictured her sitting waiting, in the warm glow of light. They went a little nearer, these two, and looked at it. Nannon, who was getting rather tired of her play with the sturdy little woman who went solemnly through her pranks, came across, and asked what they were talking about.

“We are settling a new dress for mademoiselle,” said M. Deshoulières, his honest blue eyes brimming over with fun. “It must be white and something shiny.”

“White and shiny! That will be a bride’s dress,” cried Nannon, all her teeth showing. “So that is it, mademoiselle? I am as happy as a little cat. There is a little good news come at last; for, what with fevers and wickednesses, and that angel of a Jean-Marie wanting to go for a drummer ever since he saw the last review, I can scarcely sleep at night. And monsieur is going to have a deputation and the thanks of the town—has he heard?”

They went back slowly through the narrow tangled streets, and past the Evêché into the Place Notre Dame. There rose the Cathedral, golden with the glow of the autumnal sun; there stood the serene statues encompassing it solemnly. Little dappled ranks of clouds rested quietly on the blue heavens, the jackdaws flew in and out of their carved homes; two great hawks that lived up there with them swooped lazily along, or hung poised in midair. After the stifling oppression of the summer, this cool, sweet autumn came with a sense of delicious relief. These two had their hearts almost too full for speech, but I do not know that silence was not as sweet to both. I do not know that we can leave them better than here, under the shadow of the great Cathedral, in the glow of the golden sunshine.

The little notary had disappeared, and, except the fact that he had not been seen at Tours, nothing could be ascertained about him. Whether he fled from the fever, his wife, or Monsieur Saint-Martin, remained also an open question for Charville to decide. He never came back again, that was the only sure point. Thérèse went to Madame Aubert for a little while, for Madame Roulleau, when no tidings arrived from her husband, left Charville—a broken-down woman. M. Deshoulières best knows where she is gone. And Fabien is reported to have married a widow, rich and noble, and to live in superb apartments in Paris.

Charville has not changed very much, after all. Something has been done, but it remains still almost the same picturesque, shadowy, dirty old town. Down by the stone fountain the women chatter and gossip as shrilly as ever, and drown the undertone of the river; the sun shines softly upon the yellow cornfields, and the tall gabled roofs, and the Cathedral that crowns them all. One fancies it is a little like a life. Above broken imperfections, above din and jar and fret, there rises evermore the something higher towards which our eyes may turn, our weary feet may press. If it were not so, we should be lingering in the cornfields and in the streets for ever. But when we once have felt that other beauty, its desire can never again go out of our souls. And there are many ways by which we are led upwards.