Gilberte stopped short, hesitated, blushed and stammered:
“I should so much like to have luncheon served at half-past twelve exactly!”
From that day forward, the meals were punctually prepared.
Her victory gave her self-assurance. She had the accounts brought to her daily, although her inspection was confined to ascertaining the cost of things and checking the additions.
With Gilberte’s affection and open nature, however, it was difficult for her to live absolutely cut off from her fellow-creatures, as she had first intended. True, she refused to make acquaintances; and her shyness was such that, after three months, she had not yet set foot in the streets of Domfront. But those who have been stricken by fate have a natural company of friends in the poor, the wretched, the destitute, the outcast; and her heart could not avoid the sort of friendship built upon adversity.
Between Gilberte and the first beggar who crossed the threshold of the Logis there was more than an alms and a thank-you: there was the delight of giving on one side and, on the other, gratitude for the smile and the good grace of her who gave. Nor could it be otherwise. Even if Gilberte had not had that pretty, fair hair which frolicked around her face like little flickering flames, nor those gentle lips, nor those pink cheeks which gave her face the freshness of a flower, she would still have been bewitchingly beautiful, thanks to her blue eyes, which were always a little dewy, as though tears were playing in them, and always smiling, even at the times of her deepest sadness. And her look, her figure, all her delicate and attractive personality breathed such touching purity that the most indifferent were lapped in it as in the soft caresses of a balmy breeze.
Her charm was made up of goodness, simplicity and, above all, innocence, that innocence which is unaware of its own existence, which knows nothing of life, which suspects no evil and which does not see the traps laid for it, nor the hypocrisy that surrounds it, nor the envy which it inspires.
La Bonne Demoiselle was the name by which the poor called her, thus correcting, by a sort of common instinct, the style which circumstances had compelled her to adopt. And, in all the garrets of Domfront, in all the cabins and cottages of the neighbourhood, people spoke of la Bonne Demoiselle of the Logis, of la Bonne Demoiselle who mourned her husband’s memory and smiled upon the poor.
Her gentle smile worked many a miracle in that little world, dispelled many a hatred, stifled many a rebellious impulse, healed many a sore. Men and women consulted her, inexperienced girl that she was, and, what was more, followed her advice.
A mother came one day, with her baby in her arms. She told the tragedy of her life, spoke of an elopement, a desertion. Gilberte understood nothing of her story. Yet the mother, in an hour, went away consoled.