“Is your strange trusteeship still going on?”
“As it was.”
“And you have received no tidings of the young man? It is peculiar, very peculiar. There was a girl, also, left under your charge, was there not?” Max flushed slightly. The last night’s thoughts, which occupation had hunted out of his mind, came back like a torrent. He caught a glimpse of himself in a great velvet-bordered mirror which stood over the chimney-piece, he looked old, grave, unlike a lover for Thérèse.
“Mademoiselle Veuillot has found a temporary home, Monseigneur, at the house of Ignace Roulleau, the notary in Rue St. Servan. The conditions of her small legacy require her to remain in Charville.”
“She might be received at our convent,” suggested the Bishop gravely.
M. Deshoulières made no answer beyond taking leave.
Chapter Ten.
“Have I not nursed, for two long wretched years,
That miserable hope, that every day
Grew weaker, like a baby sick to death,
Yet dearer for its weakness, day by day?”
Madoc.