“Without doubt it is Monsieur’s well-known honourable character which influenced his choice.” M. Deshoulières made a gesture of impatience.
“Honourable character? Bah! The man knows nothing of my character or my honour either. I wish I could honestly say he was not in his proper senses. When I think of what has been done, it seems to me that he is a madman and I am a fool; but I suppose the world will pronounce him a fool and me—a knave. Stop, I know what you are going to say; nevertheless, you will discover that I am right. If there was any good to be gained by this ridiculous trust, one might endure it with philosophy. As it is, I foresee nothing but annoyance, trouble, and gossip.”
“Monsieur alarmed with the prospect of gossip? I have always understood that he despised it,” said the notary, with a scarcely perceptible sneer.
“That depends. The thing may sting although it is contemptible.”
“Mademoiselle Veuillot will require a home,” said M. Roulleau, after another pause.
“There is no time to spend over new perplexities,” answered M. Deshoulières, impatiently, jumping up and pushing back his chair. “I must return. Come with me, Roulleau: there is just the possibility of his having arrived at a more Christian state of mind, and agreeing to an alteration.”
“He must die, I presume?” remarked the notary.
“Die? Yes. No one but he could live through the night, but he will no doubt do so—out of contrariety,” added the doctor, under his breath.
The two men rose. Veuve Angelin had only just time to scurry into her kitchen before they appeared, ran down the stairs, and into the little square. There was a statue in the centre, of course, and trees planted round it, with benches here and there for the idle. Nurses and their charges strolled about, under the little patches of shade, a band played lively airs from the last comic opera, two or three men sat outside a café and smoked. M. Deshoulières turned abruptly down the narrow lane along which Veuve Angelin had carried her pitcher. Such contrasts—outside, the sun shining, people laughing and amusing themselves; inside, sorrow, and hush, and death—were too thoroughly matters of course with him to be much noticed. Perhaps he had seen deeply enough into life to know that, after all, the contrast is often superficial. Not unfrequently the laughter would be tears, if it dared: the sharpest grief is sometimes denied the luxury of a sign. Heaven help such poor souls! Moreover, the contrast, such as it is, came before him every day. It shocks us when we are suddenly brought out of the noise and turmoil about us, face to face with that dread Angel whose step each hour brings nearer to ourselves. But this man lived, as it were, in his presence, and was not jarred by any discord between that consciousness and the life of every day. Nevertheless, on this day there was a strangeness about the event which impressed, him and made him impatient of interruption to his thoughts. He was glad to leave the music and the dancing children and the sunlight behind him, and to feel himself under the shade of the great cathedral, though he did not put his fancy into words, or acknowledge more than a pleasant friendliness as he looked up at the beautiful spires, the firm up-springing lines, the lovely rose windows, the noble portals, the thin solemn statues with folded hands and serene attitudes,—the whole aspect of the building ever varying, severe or tender, as the case might be, but always inconceivably peaceful.
The little notary had hard work to keep pace with his companion’s long strides. They went round two sides of the Cathedral, then out of the Place Notre Dame into another street, as narrow as the others, but somewhat unlike them. The houses were not crowded together in so odd a fashion. They had outside shutters, which were closed against the sun; and high up were long rambling wooden balconies, over which green vines clambered and tossed themselves. Further on, a house was being dug out,—the house of some famous man: the workmen were a little excited over a fresh discovery. M. Deshoulières passed without a look, and presently came upon the Cygne, standing in a triangular Place, set round with sycamore-trees. At the door M. Roulleau ventured upon a remark.