"For one short moment, the eyes of the countess flashed fire, but as suddenly they softened, and she smilingly extended her hand:"
"Well—let us contend no longer, dear boy; I see that, for once, I must succumb to your strong will. Here comes the woman with my disguise. Go out a while, and let me change my dress. Send the footman with a little casket you will find in the carriage-box. Here is the key. And, Eugene, do beg the man to send in our supper, that it may be ready for us when I shall have metamorphosed myself into a peasant-woman."
About fifteen minutes later, the countess called her son. "How do you like me?" she said. "Am I sufficiently disguised to pass for that fellow's wife? What a strange picture we will make—you and I, seated on a sack of wool, and drawn by a pair of creeping oxen! 'Tis well for you that you are an abbe; were you any thing else, you could not venture to travel by the side of a woman of low degree. But—come, let us enjoy our supper; I, for one, am both hungry and sleepy."
She drew a stool up to the table, which was spread with a clean cloth, and covered with platters of bread, butter, and cheese. Between two wooden bowls stood a large pitcher of milk. These bowls the countess filled to the brim, and handed one to her son.
"Pledge me a bumper, and wish me a prosperous journey," said she, playfully, while she put the cup to her lips, all the while narrowly watching Eugene.
He followed her example, and drained his bowl to its last drop.
Then, striving to fall in with her mood, he said:
"You see how obedient I am, and yet you know that I am not one of those that would be content to live in a land flowing with milk and honey."
"Thank you," replied his mother, "for this one act of obedience. I could wish you were as submissive in other things. But—what is the matter, boy? You are pale."
"I do not know," stammered Eugene, his tongue seeming paralyzed. "I am sick—I want-fresh air! Some air, mother!"
He attempted to rise, but fell back into his seat.