“Nannon, you are not good to-day at all.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is rather that I think of Jean-Marie.”
“Jean-Marie is not at the farm now?”
“No, no; he has tried three masters since M. Gohon. He is too good for them, little angel, that is the truth. He is not like one of those great hulking country boys who have no wits beyond their hands and feet. M. Gohon might have suited him, though.”
“But, Nannon, it was not because of that affair at the Halle that M. Gohon dismissed him.”
“That is your innocence, mademoiselle; when any one has enemies like that Madame Mathurine and M. Deshoulières, a very little serves. No, no; M. Deshoulières is not good to have to do with, unless one has the fever. Then, certainly—”
“If ever you have the fever, and he cures you, you will not talk of him like this,” Thérèse answered, indignantly.
“If I have it I shall send for him, and not for that poor little Pinot, whom I recollect when he was a little creature in leading-strings, tumbling about like a helpless bundle. As if he could tell what was good for anybody! But, mademoiselle, I do not understand. If M. Deshoulières is so excellent as you suppose him, why do you not complain to him of these creatures—these Roulleaus—who insult you with making you slave for them? Perhaps he does not know.”
“No, he does not know,” answered Thérèse, dreamily. The same thought had come into her own mind. She knew now that she had but to speak, and her life would be lightened of those heavy burdens which had grown so hateful to her. And yet—could she speak? She believed that the sum left by her uncle for her support was, in truth, very inadequate, and she knew nothing of its being even now doubled. Few people might care to receive her; she disliked the idea of being thrown upon M. Deshoulières’ charity. And, after all, it might be so short a time before it ended! With his words ringing in her ears, she fancied Fabien might be at the doors. She would rather bear all until he came. Deliverance by him would be very sweet. With it all there spoke a nobler reason. To take up something of what she had let fall—to redeem months past in idle repining—to live a life that was not ever self-seeking, ever crying out for good things withheld: this was the purpose growing out of that day’s events. It was all feeble, imperfect, even in the act of resolution; but it was there.
“No; he does not know,” she repeated, as they stood at the door of the Roulleaus’ house. “I would rather he did not know. I would rather affairs remained as they are. Good-night, Nannon. It was very good of you to mend those holes.”