“You would not prefer the convent?”
“Oh, Monsieur, not—not the convent!” she exclaimed, with all the trouble returning. Her grey eyes dilated, she put out her hands imploringly.
“No one will force you,” said M. Deshoulières, in a kind, reassuring voice, but he did not understand this sudden terror. Looking upon it as a natural retreat for unmarried girls, he had thought it not unlikely she might herself suggest it. He was sorry that she shrank from it, and it surprised him a little. Nevertheless, had she but known it, she was quite safe from any attempt to thwart her inclinations; but she did not know it. Her early experience of her uncle’s unrelenting will led her to expect everywhere the same harshness, the same determination. What M. Deshoulières had once suggested he might at any time attempt to oblige her to follow out; and to be buried in a convent, to lose all hope of seeing Fabien, of hearing a word here, a word there, a rumour of his whereabouts—to lose this was to twenty-year old Thérèse like losing life itself. She would have preferred any hardship to this prospect, which had hung over her while her uncle lived, and was, probably, only prevented from taking shape by a certain half-contemptuous indulgence of his wife’s wishes, and after her death by a softening consciousness of his own failing health. Now it surged up before her again; M. Deshoulières’ words could not calm her fears.
“Only let me stay here,” she entreated.
He looked at her a little keenly. It was something new to have any one dependent upon him, half pleasant, half puzzling—then he thought of his patients and jumped up.
“That is soon settled, mademoiselle; I will speak to Madame Roulleau, and then you can arrange things as you please. Pardon me now, for my time is not my own.”
There were no difficulties with the Roulleaus; M. Deshoulières went away from the house rather pleased with his own management. Thérèse was provided for, for the present; he had satisfied himself upon one or two points, had learned also that she did not care for Fabien. Poor stupid, blind Max!
Monsieur and Mme. Roulleau lost no time in going to Thérèse when once the doctor had quitted the house; madame led the way of course, but she was a little changed to Thérèse, as the latter saw at once. Hitherto she had been almost cringing in her manner, now she had the air of one who permits herself to be persuaded against her better judgment. She was a woman of about fifty, with a sharp, puckered face, a nose pinched and slightly hooked, a long upper lip, black hair strained tightly backwards, and hands which were long, lean, covetous-looking. Some people’s hands take you into their owner’s secrets, before their faces have let out any thing. Mme. Roulleau’s were of this kind. You might notice a stretching, a little involuntary curve of the fingers’ ends, as if they longed to be grasping something. It struck Thérèse again as she stood before her in the middle of the room in a kind of linen jacket, drawn in round the waist, and the girl hardly understood at first that M. Roulleau was speaking, she could not help watching madame’s hands with a sort of fascination. M. Roulleau coughed and spoke a little louder.
“Our excellent friend, Monsieur Deshoulières, has made a proposal, mademoiselle, I had the pleasure to observe, which would relieve him, he says, from an embarrassment. Without doubt he has confided it to you. Now, madame and I could receive no pleasure so profound, so grateful to our hearts,” continued the little man, becoming suddenly enthusiastic, “as that we should experience by assisting our excellent doctor to the very extent of our means; but—”
“This is impossible,” said madame, sharply.