“You have been rather a long time,” she said. “Did the mother Lafon like the soup? Tell me then, Geneviève, was there a carriage in the street as you came in? It seemed to me that I heard one, which stopped at our door. But it must be that I was mistaken.”
“Du tout, maman,” replied Geneviève. “There was indeed a carriage, for we came home in it, Mathurine et moi.”
She smiled as she spoke, but her mother looking up in surprise, now observed her crumpled and soiled dress, her flushed, excited face. For a moment she felt vaguely alarmed.
“But, don’t be frightened, mamma; there is nothing wrong. I have had a little adventure, voilà tout,” said Geneviève, and then she told her story, the dramatic effect of which was considerably increased by Mathurine’s interpolations. “Ah, madame, que j’ai eu peur!”—“une si belle voiture.” “Madame la baronne Anglaise si bien mise—une toilette magnifique”—“un si beau monsieur,” etc. etc.
And “Was it not fortunate that Eudoxie was not with us?” observed Geneviève sagely, in conclusion.
“And the soup of the poor mother Lafon!” added Mathurine.
“We must make her some again to-morrow,” said Madame Casalis calmly. She bore the loss of the soup with equanimity. “My child might have been killed,” she thought to herself with a shudder, and the reflection somewhat soothed the bitterness of a new trouble that had been tugging at her heartstrings for several days—a trouble that had come in the shape of a thin, black-edged letter from over the sea, one of the letters from her English relations that at long intervals still found their way to the pasteur’s wife.
For these cousins of hers had never altogether lost sight of her, though since the death of her mother, their relation, Madame Casalis had felt the chain slacken, as must always be the case, however kindly the intentions, once that the links and rivets of mutual interests and common associations begin one by one to drop away. Geneviève had drawn somewhat largely on her imagination in describing herself as “half English.” She was fond of doing so; the thought of these unknown relations had always had a strong fascination for her, and had been the foundation of many a girlish castle in the air. At school she had studied English with twice the amount of attention which she bestowed upon her other lessons, and had eagerly profited by her mother’s instruction at home. And nothing gratified her more when some little jealousy was expressed by her companions on her repeatedly carrying off the “English prize,” than to hear the murmur: “Of course, what can one expect? Geneviève Casalis is of an English family—at least her mother is, which is almost the same thing.”
Not that she was ever communicative to those chattering companions of hers on the subject. By dint of well-timed but persistent cross-questioning she had elicited from her mother sufficient information, respecting the social condition of her cousins, to justify her in occasionally throwing out vague but impressive hints or allusions for the benefit of Stéphanie Rousille or Marguérite Frogé. But, notwithstanding the, comparatively speaking, humble origin and position of the Casalis family, and notwithstanding, too, Geneviève’s excessive sensitiveness on the point, no one could accuse her of consoling herself by boasting of her grand relations. Young as she was, her quick instincts had already taught her the value, in certain positions, of “an unknown quantity,” the expediency of judicious reserve, the folly of limiting by such “stubborn things” as facts the imagination of those she wished to impress. To old Mathurine alone, in all probability, was the girl thoroughly natural and unreserved.
Much to Geneviève’s dissatisfaction her mother sent her to bed very early that Sunday evening. She declared in vain that she was not in the least tired, and that she did not feel the slightest ill effects of the accident. Her varying colour and languid movements told another tale, and, as rarely happened in the Casalis family, her father looked up from his book to enforce his wife’s authority.