And the soldiers, looking up, gave a cheer for the wounded man who was to lead them. They passed on, followed by a troup of young men and boys, half of whom ultimately stepped on board the steamer at the last moment, and went across the sea to fight for France.
De Vasselot turned away from the window, and went towards the table, where the papers lay in confusion. The abbé took them up, and began to arrange them in order.
“And the estate and the gold?” he said; “who manages that, since you are going to fight?”
“You,” replied de Vasselot, “since you cannot fight. There is no one but you in Corsica who can manage it. There is none but you to understand these people.”
“All the world knows who manages half of Corsica,” put in Mademoiselle Brun, looking fiercely at the abbé. But the abbé only stamped his foot impatiently.
“Woman's gossip,” he muttered, as he shook the papers together. “Yes; I will manage your estate if you like. And if there is gold in the land, I will tear it out. And there is gold. The amiable colonel is not the man to have made a mistake on that point. I shall like the work. It will be an occupation. It will serve to fill one's life.”
“Your life is not empty,” said mademoiselle.
The abbé turned and looked at her, his glittering eyes meeting her twinkling glance.
“It is a priest's life,” he said. “Come,” he added, turning to the lawyer—“come, Mr. the Notary, into your other room, and write me out a form of authority for the Count de Vasselot to sign. We have had enough of verbal agreements on this estate.”
And, taking the notary by the arm, he went to the door. On the threshold he turned, and looked at Mademoiselle Brun.