The priest was puzzled. “Dost thou desire to remain always in this country?” he said.
“Yes,” Eugene returned with sudden coolness. “If that woman should die, possibly I might return to France. While she lives I will stay with her.”
“Thou art an obstinate child,” muttered the curé to himself, “and I believe thee. Neither the church nor the world restrains the de Vargas. They are unruly, like the wild boars.” Then he said aloud,—“What dost thou propose to do?”
“To return now,” cried Eugene, flinging up his head, “now, monsieur le curé. With your permission I will go back—I will say to her I am sorry for the disturbances I have made you. In future I shall try to be more peaceful.”
“My life will be less lively without thee,” observed the curé thoughtfully; “and were I alone concerned thou wouldst freely have my consent to remain, but thy grand-uncle”—
“Tell him,” said Eugene with bent brows and flashing eyes, “tell him that he has no authority over me. That I refuse the meagre sum that he would dole out to me. In this country I will learn how to support myself; yet also tell him that since I love that woman I hate him less.”
“Thou art a fiery lad,” murmured the curé with resignation. “If thy grand-uncle were a de Vargas I would need to soften that message.”
“Have I your permission to return?” asked Eugene urgently.
“Thou hast. Of what use would it be to withhold it?” said the curé frankly.