“What should it be, monsieur?” she said, with a half sob which would not be repressed. “I live on from day to day.”
“My poor child, is life so hard?”
She looked at him in wonder. What did he mean—he, who was one of her persecutors—by standing there, saying kind words, and looking down upon her with compassionate eyes? She thought the words would be like Madame Roulleau’s, lasting only for a day, and resented them in her heart. He, meanwhile, was thinking of what she had said once, that pathetic little sentence which had sounded in his ears ever since,—“Every place must be a little sad, since I belong to no one.” Poor desolate Thérèse! She was shutting up her heart, misjudging even at this moment the man who was yearning to pour out upon her the best gift this world has to offer—a great, unselfish love. She answered his question coldly.
“It will all come to an end one day. Do you want to speak to Monsieur or Madame Roulleau, monsieur?”
He was a little chilled and disappointed. He did not stay to remember that the feelings which had been growing stronger with him week by week, day by day, must be unknown to her. It was unreasonable, perhaps, to expect another answer, and yet he fancied it should have been different.
“I do not want them,” he said gently. “I came to speak to you, to know whether you were still contented with these people. You do not look so. Is there any thing I can do?”
“You have heard nothing more from the Lion d’Or?” she asked, evading an answer.
“No,” said the doctor, more abruptly. He disliked the subject of this trust, which brought him letters, papers to sign, difficulties, and endless arrangements. Only a week before he had paid another flying visit to Ardron, about a matter which required his personal superintendence, and he made a second attempt upon the imperturbable curé. “Still no news?” inquired the curé, with that slight lifting of the eyebrows which M. Deshoulières found so irritating. “Absolutely no promise of news?” And then he was told of that impotent visit to the Lion d’Or. “And you found no one? Decidedly, monsieur, as you say, there must be imposition somewhere.” That was all the doctor could extract, and it was not at all pleasant. “No,” he replied to Thérèse, “I wish I could have gone myself; but, after all, it would only have been one fool more. Roulleau says there will be a dozen such absurdities. It is always the case in these affaire. You should have known nothing about it. How came they to be so indiscreet as to cause you the disappointment?”
“It was the children’s doing,” she said; and then, with a sudden impulse, which astonished herself, she stretched out her hands imploringly. “Promise me, promise me,” she said, “always to tell me when there is a little hope like that.”
Her eyes were filled with tears, even those few kindly words were breaking down the barriers of pride. He took her hands; he was greatly moved by the child-like appeal. “I promise,” he said quietly.