But the abbé had suggested no solution to Denise's difficulties. The estate seemed to be drifting naturally into the hands of the only man who wanted it, and, after all, had offered a good price for it.
“I will find out from the Abbé Susini or the mayor whether the Count de Vasselot is really here,” Denise said, as they approached the village. “And if he is, we will go and see him. We cannot go on like this. He says do not sell, and then he does not come near us. He must give his reasons. Why should I take his advice?”
“Why, indeed?” said Mademoiselle Brun, to whom the question was not quite a new one.
She knew that though Denise would rebel against de Vasselot's advice, she would continue to follow it.
“It seems to be luncheon-time,” said Denise, when they reached the village. “The place is deserted. It must be their déjeuner.”
“It may be,” responded mademoiselle, with her manlike curtness of speech.
They went into the church, which was empty, and stayed but a few minutes there, for Mademoiselle Brun was as short in her speech with God as with men. When they came out to the market-place, that also was deserted, which was singular, because the villagers in Corsica spend nearly the whole day on the market-place, talking politics and whispering a hundred intrigues of parochial policy; for here a municipal councillor is a great man, and usually a great scoundrel, selling his favour and his vote, trafficking for power, and misappropriating the public funds. Not only was the market-place empty, but some of the house-doors were closed. The door of a small shop was even shut from within as they approached, and surreptitiously barred. Mademoiselle Brun noticed it, and Denise did not pretend to ignore it.
“One would say that we had an infectious complaint,” she said, with a short laugh.
They went to the house of the Abbé Susini. Even this door was shut.
“The abbé is out,” said the old woman, who came in answer to their summons, and she closed the door again with more speed than politeness.