“He has but a son and a daughter,” rejoined Eugene hastily.
“But the cheeldren’s cheeldren,” said the priest, expanding his hands. “Many they are, like the birds of the feelds.”
“Therefore,” said Mrs. Hardy slowly, “he cannot do much for Eugene. Is that what you wish to say?”
“Pardon, madame,” said the curé.
Eugene explained what she meant, and the priest assented by a profound bow.
“But he has sent me money,” said Eugene, frowning slightly. “Much money, has he not, monsieur le curé?”
The curé shook his head. “He has sent me—not money. Monsieur thy onkel wishes,” and he directed his remark to Mrs. Hardy, “that thees dear boy return to hees country.”
“Pause a moment, monsieur le curé,” said Eugene urgently, “and pardon me, Mrs. Hardy, though it is not civil to speak a language you do not understand, but I cannot wait;” and then ensued a brief colloquy between them in French.
The boy’s face grew paler and paler, and his manner quieter, as they proceeded, while the curé became flushed and eloquent.