“Châtillon-sur-Loir is a small village,” replied Eugene. “There is a broad green in the centre of it. On one side in a thatched cottage lives the curé with old Jeanne his servant. He has only a few pieces of furniture. He drinks but little wine, mostly water or mallow tea; and he eats black bread, for the white is dear. He wears an old cotton cassock; the one that he has on is probably a gift from my grand-aunt, who is pious. And he gives away everything, even the wood for his stove. He goes from his cottage to the chapel where he officiates; he visits the peasants who are stupid. He saunters to and fro on the green, reading his breviary or the Figaro. Oh, it is a charming existence!”
Mrs. Hardy suppressed a smile. “You would be less unhappy with us,” she said.
Eugene looked at her quickly.
“Why not stay with us?” she murmured caressingly. “You know that we love you, and would consider you our child if you would let us.”
“Oh, no, no!” said Eugene, raising his hands as if he were putting some temptation from him. “Do not mention this, for it is among the impossible things.”
“Good-night,” she said abruptly; and she kissed him tenderly, and then pushed him from her. “Go, get into your little bed, but remember this when you are fretting there,—that there is always one heart open to you, one home ready for you. Whether you go to France or stay here I shall always look upon you as my boy.”
Eugene paused. Then he seized her hand, and pressed it warmly to his lips before he rushed from the room. There were tears on the hand when he dropped it, and Mrs. Hardy sat looking at it steadfastly until her husband came in.
“I just slipped the stranger into his room, Bess,” he said. “I knew everything was ready for him, and I thought I wouldn’t bother bringing him in here again; for we folks who have to get up early want to get to bed early. What’s the matter? You’re not worrying, are you?”
“No, Stephen; it seems to me I shall never worry again.”