“What?”
“They say that even to be dépositaire to such a property is a very fine thing, and that M. Deshoulières is perhaps in no hurry to smooth M. Saint-Martin’s return.”
“They say that! And you can repeat it!” cried Thérèse flashing round upon her. “Nannon, I shall hate you if you believe what wicked people talk. Do you not know how good he is? Have you not told me yourself how much he does?”
“That may be. But he is a hard man for all that,” said Nannon, obstinately.
“So you repeat. I do not believe it. I believe there is no man in all Charville so good, so noble, and so generous, as Monsieur Deshoulières,” cried the girl, with vehemence.
“So, so! This is new doctrine. What has changed you, then, mademoiselle?”
Thérèse was silent. In the darkness, Nannon could not see her blushes. “Perhaps, because I have only now begun to know him,” she said, softly.
“This is not the first time you have met,” Nannon answered, with a certain dryness. “Peste! this wind is enough to blow one’s head off one’s shoulders. Well, well, old people can’t take these fancies like young ones.”
“Yet you have told me yourself about his kindness to your neighbours.”
“Oh, for a doctor, yes. That is quite another affair. A doctor, you see, mademoiselle, makes it a part of his trade to be good to the sick. Otherwise, nobody would take his nasty medicines. There would be a revolution, and, who knows, we might find that we could live without doctors. M. Deshoulières is very well when you have need of him. But I have heard it said, ‘Never trust a lawyer when you are in peace, a doctor when you are well.’ There is another word about curés, only mademoiselle might not like to hear it. Ouf, what a tempest!”