There was one person who loved Gilberte almost as dearly as Emile, but with another kind of love: that person was Jean. He did not precisely look upon her as his daughter, for, blended with the paternal sentiment, there was a sort of respect for a nature so adorable, a sort of unpolished enthusiasm which he would not have had for his own children. But he was proud of her beauty, of her goodness, of her common sense and of her courage, like a man who knows the value of those qualities, and feels keenly the honor of a noble attachment.
The familiarity with which he expressed himself concerning her, dropping the title of mademoiselle in accordance with his habit of calling every one by his or her name, in no wise detracted from his instinctive veneration for her, and Emile's ears were not wounded thereby, although he would never have dared do the same.
The young man took keen delight in hearing of Gilberte's childish sports and pretty ways, of her kindly impulses, of her generous and delicate attentions to the friend who, but for her, would have lacked everything.
"When I was wandering in the mountains not long ago," said Jappeloup, "I was pressed so close sometimes that I dared not leave the hole in the cliff or the branches of some tree with dense foliage, in which I had hidden in the morning. At such times hunger took hold of me, and one night when I was thoroughly done up with weakness and fatigue, and was creeping round the mountain, saying to myself that it was a long, long way to Châteaubrun, and if I should happen to meet gendarmes on the way I shouldn't have the strength to run, I saw a little wagon on the road with several bundles of straw, and Gilberte walking alongside and making signs to me. She had come all that distance with Sylvain Charasson, looking for me everywhere, and watching like a little quail under a bush. I lay down and hid in the straw. Gilberte sat down by my side, and Sylvain led us back to Châteaubrun, where I went in under the noses of the gendarmes, who were hunting for me not two steps away.
"Another time we had agreed that Sylvain should bring me something to eat and put it in the hollow trunk of an old willow about a league from Châteaubrun. It was horrible weather, pelting rain, and I had a strong suspicion that the little rascal, who likes to be comfortable, would pretend to forget me or would eat my dinner on the road. However, I went there at the time agreed upon, and I found the little basket well filled and well out of sight. But what do you suppose I spied near the willow? The print of a cunning little foot on the damp sand, and I was able to follow the poor little foot along the ground, where it had sunk in more than once over the ankle. The dear child had got wet through, dirty and tired, because she wouldn't trust anyone but herself to look after her old friend!
"And still another day she saw the bloodhounds marching straight for an old ruin, where, thinking that I was perfectly safe, I was calmly taking a nap at midday. It was terribly hot that day! It was the very day you arrived in the neighborhood. Well, Gilberte took the short cut, a very rough and dangerous path, where the horsemen could not have followed her, and arrived a quarter of an hour ahead of them, all red and all out of breath, to wake me and tell me to make tracks. She was sick afterward, poor dear heart, and her people knew nothing about it. That was what made me particularly anxious that evening, when we took supper at Châteaubrun and Janille told us that she had gone to bed.
"Ah! yes, the little one has always had a great heart. If the King of France knew her worth he would be too much honored to obtain her hand for the best of his sons. When she was no bigger than my fist, any one could see that she would be as pretty and lovable a creature as ever was. You may seek as you will among the greatest and richest ladies, my boy, you will never find a Gilberte like Gilberte de Châteaubrun!"
Emile listened with delight, asked him innumerable questions, and made him repeat the same stories ten times over.
It was not long before Monsieur Cardonnet discovered the cause of the change that had taken place in Emile. There was no more melancholy, no more painful reticence, no more indirect reproof. It seemed as if Emile had never been in opposition to him on any subject whatever, or at least had never noticed that his father had different ideas from his own. He had become a child once more in many respects. He did not heave sighs at this or that plan of study; he seemed not to see things which might have offended his principles; he dreamed of naught but lovely, sunny mornings, long walks, precipices to climb, solitudes to explore; and yet he brought back neither sketches, nor plants, nor mineralogical specimens, as he would have done at other times.
Country life pleased him above all things. It was the loveliest region in the world; the open air and exercise in the saddle did him a vast amount of good; in a word, everything was for the best, provided that he was allowed to have his way; and if he fell into a fit of musing, he would come out of it with a smile that seemed to say: