On the morning of the second day after Ferrol came, he was carried off to the Manor Casimbault to see the painful alterations which were being made there under the direction of Madame Lavilette. Sophie, who had a good deal of natural taste, had in the old days fought against her mother’s incongruous ideas, and once, when the rehabilitation of the Manor Casimbault came up, she had made a protest; but it was unavailing, and it was her last effort. The Manor Casimbault was destined to be an example of ancient dignity and modern bad taste. Alterations were going on as Madame Lavilette, Ferrol and Christine entered.
For some time Ferrol watched the proceedings with a casual eye, but presently he begged his hostess that she would leave the tall, old oak clock where it was in the big hall, and that the new, platter-faced office clock, intended for its substitute, be hung up in the kitchen. He eyed the well-scraped over-mantel askance and saw, with scarcely concealed astonishment, a fine, old, carved wooden seat carried out of doors to make room for an American rocking-chair. He turned his head away almost in anger when he saw that the beautiful brown wainscoting was being painted an ultra-marine blue. His partly disguised astonishment and dissent were not lost upon the crude but clever Christine. A new sense was opened up in her, and she felt somehow that the ultra-marine blue was not right, that the over-mantel had been spoiled, that the new walnut table was too noticeable, and that the American rocking-chair looked very common. Also she felt that the plush, with which her mother and the dressmaker at St. Croix had decorated her bodice, was not the thing. Presently this made her angry.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked a little maliciously, pointing to the rocking-chair in the salon.
“I prefer standing—with you,” he answered, eyeing the chair with a sly twinkle.
“No, that isn’t it,” she rejoined sharply. “You don’t like the chair.” Then suddenly breaking into English—“Ah! I know, I know. You can’t fool me. I see de leetla look in your eye; and you not like the paint, and you’d pitch that painter, Alcide, out into the snow if it is your house.”
“I wouldn’t, really,” he answered—he coughed a little—“Alcide is doing his work very well. Couldn’t you give me a coat of blue paint, too?”
The piquant, intelligent, fiery peasant face interested him. It had warmth, natural life and passion.
She flushed and stamped her foot, while he laughed heartily; and she was about to say something dangerous, when the laugh suddenly stopped and he began coughing. The paroxysm increased until he strained and caught at his breast with his hand. It seemed as if his chest and throat must burst.
She instantly changed. The flush of anger passed from her face, and something else came into it. She caught his hand.
“Oh! what can I do, what can I do to help you?” she asked pitifully. “I did not know you were so ill. Tell me, what can I do?”