“Mon amie!” remonstrated the notary, with an appealing gesture.
“Impossible!” reiterated Mme. Roulleau. “I know you, Ignace; you are as weak as an infant over your ideas of friendship; but I am a mother. I think of my Adolphe, of my Octavie, defenceless little ones! I cannot consent to burden our family with another load. Mademoiselle must seek a home elsewhere.”
Thérèse started like a guilty thing. Up before her rose the grim walls of the convent, Fabien seeking her outside, she shut in, separated, unconscious of his neighbourhood. Peace might be there—repose; her untrained heart cried out passionately for other things. “There is the convent,” said madame, watching her. She had heard from M. Deshoulières how his suggestion had been received.
“Let me stay here. Do not send me away,” said poor Thérèse, with imploring eyes.
“It is not my heart,” answered madame, trying to be pathetic; “it is the cost, the extras we must provide.”
“I can live upon so little,” urged the girl, turning towards the little notary.
“Zénobie!” he exclaimed, as if with a sudden impulse, “it is useless—I must yield!”
“Imprudent man!” replied madame, keeping up the little farce with great vigour; “do you forget our miserable means?”
“I forget nothing. We must stint ourselves—I know it. Adolphe and Octavie must suffer—I know it. What then? When friendship and compassion call, I cannot shut my heart. Mademoiselle, you have conquered. Remain.”
He spoke with a grandly tragic air. Thérèse relieved, astonished, all at once, could not credit her ears. It seemed impossible that the little man should assert himself in this manner against his wife, who cast up her hands, and cried out again at his imprudence. She tried to murmur thanks, but M. Roulleau, in his unwonted energy, waved them aside.