“Oh no, thanks! it isn’t a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, and there is a moon.”
The offer was pressed three or four times, and refused as often.
“Then, monsieur will summon me if—if he finds occasion; he will keep the middle of the road, the sides are so rough.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examine his prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with his book under his arm.
Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do a little business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to “take somewhat” from the foreigner whom her father had spared.
“A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps be good enough to accept it?”
Well, really, Dennistoun hadn’t much use for these things. What did mademoiselle want for it?
“Nothing—nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it.”
The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakably genuine, so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, and submitted to have the chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he had rendered the father and daughter some service which they hardly knew how to repay. As he set off with his book they stood at the door looking after him, and they were still looking when he waved them a last good night from the steps of the Chapeau Rouge.
Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone with his acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particular interest in him since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside the salle à manger; some words to the effect that “Pierre and Bertrand would be sleeping in the house” had closed the conversation.