The tutor thought it not improbable such an important personage as the Marquis de Saint-Laurent had been officially betrothed to some desirable parti of infant years, and asked her age and name.
‘The Countess de Fresney. She is not a little girl, and at present her husband is alive, but I daresay he will be dead soon. You know, Monsieur, she is a great deal older than I am, but I shall like that much better. It will not be necessary for me to learn much, for she will know everything for me, and I can amuse myself. I will take you to see her to-morrow. She is very beautiful,—but not so beautiful as my mamma—and I love her very dearly.’
It occurred to the cynical tutor that the countess might be bored enough in this uncheerful place to take an interest in so captivating a person as himself. But when they arrived at Fresney, they learnt that the countess was seriously ill. Hervé began to cry when he was refused permission to see his friend, and at that moment M. le Comte, an erratic, middle-aged tyrant, held in mortal terror by his dependants, burst in upon him, with a vigorous—‘Ho, ho! the little marquis, my rival! Come hither, sirrah, and let me run the sword of vengeance through your body.’
And the merry old rascal began to roll his eyes, and mutter strange guttural sounds for his own amusement and Hervé’s fright.
‘I do not care if you do kill me, M. le Comte,’ the boy sobbed. ‘You are a wicked man, and it is because you make dear Madame unhappy that she is so ill. You are as wicked and ugly as the ogre in the story she gave me last Christmas. But she will get well, and you will die, and then I will marry her, and she will never be unhappy any more.’
‘Take him away before I kill him—the insolent little jackanapes! In love with a married woman, and telling it to her husband! Ho, ho! so I am an ogre! Very well, let me make a meal of you.’ With that he produced an orange and offered it to Hervé, who turned on his heel, and stumbled out of the room, blinded with tears.
But the countess did not get well. She sent for Hervé one day, and kissed him tenderly.
‘My little boy, my little Hervé, you will soon be alone again. But you will find another friend, and by and by you will be happy.’
‘Never, never, if you die, Countess. I shall not care for anything, not even for my new pony, though it has such a pretty white star on its forehead. I do not want to grow up, and I shall never be married now, nor—nothing,’ he cried, with quivering lips.
That evening his friend died, and the news was brought to Hervé, as he and the tutor sat over their supper. Hervé pushed away his plate, and took his scared and desolated little heart to the solitude of his own room. During the night, the tutor was awakened by his call.