The count walked back along the hedge, he being within it and I without.
“You will learn nothing from Monsieur de Chessel,” he remarked; “he is altogether too fine a gentleman to do more than receive the reports of his bailiff.”
The count then showed me his yards and the farm buildings, the pleasure-grounds, orchards, vineyards, and kitchen garden, until we finally came to the long alley of acacias and ailanthus beside the river, at the end of which I saw Madame de Mortsauf sitting on a bench, with her children. A woman is very lovely under the light and quivering shade of such foliage. Surprised, perhaps, at my prompt visit, she did not move, knowing very well that we should go to her. The count made me admire the view of the valley, which at this point is totally different from that seen from the heights above. Here I might have thought myself in a corner of Switzerland. The meadows, furrowed with little brooks which flow into the Indre, can be seen to their full extent till lost in the misty distance. Towards Montbazon the eye ranges over a vast green plain; in all other directions it is stopped by hills, by masses of trees, and rocks. We quickened our steps as we approached Madame de Mortsauf, who suddenly dropped the book in which Madeleine was reading to her and took Jacques upon her knees, in the paroxysms of a violent cough.
“What’s the matter?” cried the count, turning livid.
“A sore throat,” answered the mother, who seemed not to see me; “but it is nothing serious.”
She was holding the child by the head and body, and her eyes seemed to shed two rays of life into the poor frail creature.
“You are so extraordinarily imprudent,” said the count, sharply; “you expose him to the river damps and let him sit on a stone bench.”
“Why, papa, the stone is burning hot,” cried Madeleine.
“They were suffocating higher up,” said the countess.
“Women always want to prove they are right,” said the count, turning to me.