The child was wide-awake now and came running to the priest, all eagerness for the small bit of silk in Père Antoine’s outstretched hand.
“Oh, madame, it is just like the beautiful silk in the chest in the garret!” Péron cried, delighted; “the same pale blue—but it is not so thick and glossy!” he added, on examination.
At the child’s words both men glanced quickly at Madame Michel, whose face flushed scarlet.
“Hush, Péron!” she exclaimed angrily, “you do not know what you say.”
“How is this, mother?” asked Jacques des Horloges gravely.
She laughed a little, her agitation giving way to a milder feeling.
“I left the ladder down and the little rogue is as active as a cat and more curious,” she said, apologetically.
Père Antoine smiled, laying his hand softly on the child’s curls.
“The likeness to his father grows daily,” he remarked to Jacques; “do you not see it?”
“I try to think it is in my eyes,” rejoined the clockmaker bluntly; “it is like to do him more mischief than good.”