“She has lost her father,” urged M. Rossignol anxiously.
“I know the grief of children—this is not such a grief. There is something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner—but she is without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave, pure-souled—”
“Fitted for any station,” interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently he laid a hand upon the Cure’s arm. “Shall I ask her again?” he said, breathing hard. “Do you think she has found out her mistake?”
The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When he realised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other’s simple vanity. But he mastered himself, and said: “It is not that, Maurice. It is not you.”
“How did you know I had asked her?” asked his friend querulously.
“You have just told me.”
M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure’s tone. It made him a little nervous. “I’m an old fool, but she needed some one,” he protested. “At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrown away.”
“Dear Maurice!” said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other’s. “In all respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth is the only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life’s laws.”
The Seigneur pressed his arm. “I thought you less worldly-wise than myself; I find you more,” he said.
“Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. Come, we will both go and see Rosalie.”