“What does it matter whether I like it or not,” he said with a bitter smile. “I am obliged to go to France. I must live with this good man, but I fear that I shall be a torment to him. However, some day I shall revenge myself on my uncle. I shall study it.”
“Eugene,” said Mrs. Hardy suddenly, “you must go to bed; you are not yourself.”
”You will spend the night with us, will you not?” said the sergeant hospitably to their visitor.
The priest said that it would be “too much pleasure,” that he had “conveyed” his travelling-bag to a near hotel, and that he was sorry to have “deranged” them by coming so late, but he had been detained by a search for Eugene in his old quarters.
“That doesn’t matter,” said the sergeant; “better late than never. I’ll go with you and get your bag, and we can put you up here.”
The priest overwhelmed him with thanks; and while the sergeant went for his hat, he looked about the pleasant room, and said appreciatively, “Ah, but you are well cossu here.”
“What does he mean?” asked Mrs. Hardy.
“It is like a bean in a soft pod,” said Eugene. “One uses the word in France. This house is indeed a palace compared with the house of the poor curé,” he went on, after the priest had uttered a cheerful au revoir and had disappeared with the sergeant.
“What is his house like?” asked Mrs. Hardy curiously.