“There!” said Monsieur Revel, when she, flew to tell him, “there is another follower to add to your fawns and kittens. Old Raphael is considered a crusty fellow everywhere; and you see how different he is with you!”
“I am very glad,” declared Euphrosyne. “It is a pretty sight to amuse you with, every morning when you wake. It is kind of Raphael; and of the abbess too.”
“I am pleased that the abbess and you should be good friends, Euphrosyne, because— Ah! that is the way,” he said, in a mortified tone, and throwing himself back in his chair, as he followed with his eyes the flittings of the girl about the room, after her birds. “You have got your own way with everybody, and we have spoiled you; and there is no speaking to you upon a subject that you do not like. You will not hear, though it is a thing that lies heavy at the heart of a dying old man.”
“I will hear you, if you talk to me all my life,” said Euphrosyne, with brimming eyes, seating herself on a low stool at the old man’s knees.
“And if you hear me, you will not give me a grave, steady answer.”
“Try me,” said she, brushing away the gathering tears. “I am not crying about anything you are going to say; but only because—Oh, grandpapa! how could you think I would not listen to you?”
“Well, well, my love! I see that you are willing now. You remember your promise to enter the convent, if I desired it.”
“Yes.”
“You talk of nothing being changed by our alarm, two days ago, because this table stands in the middle of the room, and the ants and beetles have not carried off your pretty work. Hey!”
“May I speak, grandpapa?”