“You accept me as your husband?”
“If you please, monsieur.”
“Then let us get married. I forget your name.”
“Louise Bibelot.”
“My name is Jacques Goffinet. When we are married we can get better acquainted.”
Flushed with success, Jacques turned to display a signal of victory to his seignior, and was astounded to see Dollard standing by the fire-place in earnest conversation with a beautiful girl. It was evident that no further countenance and support could be expected from Dollard. So Jacques took his bride in tow as a tug may now be seen guiding some yacht of goodly proportions through a crowded harbor, and set out to find the notary.
When Dollard fell into an easy posture to enjoy his man’s courtship, he cast a preliminary glance about the hall, that other amusing things might not escape him. At once his attitude became tense, his ears buzzed, and the blood rose like wine to his head. The woman of his constant thoughts was warming her hand at the fire. He could not be mistaken; there was nothing else like the glory of her youthful white hair in either hemisphere; and without an instant’s hesitation he brought himself before her, bowing, hat in hand, until his plume lay on the floor.
The demoiselle made a like stately obeisance.
Dumb, then, they stood, just as the peasant couple had done; but in this case too bounteous speech choked itself. It seemed to both that their hearts beat aloud. Dollard felt himself vibrate from head to foot with the action of his blood-valves. The pair looked up and stammered to cover such noise within, speaking together, and instantly begged each other’s pardon, then looked down and were silent again.