Jules looked down at Blanche, but she avoided his eyes.
"We haven't decided definitely," Jules replied, "but we think of going to London."
Blanche sighed, and Father Dumény glanced at her quickly and then smiled up at Jules.
"She has a notion that she isn't going to live," Jules added, nodding at his wife. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"
Father Dumény put his hands to his sides, and for a moment his great body shook with laughter.
"Why, I expect to baptize at least half a dozen of your children! In a few years we shall see them trotting around here in Boulogne and coming to my Sunday-school to be prepared for their first communion. We need all the good Catholics we can have, in these days, to fight against the infidelity that's ruining the country. Ah, my dear child," he said, patting Blanche's hand, "when you're a grandmother with a troop of children around you, you'll look back and smile at these foolish little fears."
After that night he came oftener, and kept Blanche laughing with his gayety.
"When you go to London," he said one evening, "I shall give you letters to some dear English friends of mine,—Mr. and Mrs. Tate. I met the Tates when I was in Paris visiting Father Brémont more than ten years ago. Mr. Tate represented the banking-house of Welling Brothers, of London, there, and now he's in London as a member of the firm, I believe. You'll like Mrs. Tate, my dear. She's a good soul, and she speaks French almost as well as English. I shall expect to hear that you've become great friends."
"But we aren't sure of going to England yet," Blanche replied with a weary smile.
"Perhaps we shall go to America," Jules laughed. "I want Blanche to see the country."