“Go to rest thyself, my child,” he said, “as thy good mother counsels thee. To-morrow morning we shall wish to speak to thee on a matter of importance, but not now; and before thou sleepest, Geneviève,” he added with a certain solemnity of manner, suggesting the pastor as well as the father, “remind thyself to thank the good God for having preserved thee from a great danger.”
Geneviève murmured a dutiful “Oui, mon père,” then turning to her mother—“Wilt thou then, dear mamma, come up to see me before I sleep, for a minute?” for she was burning with curiosity to learn something of the nature of the “matter of importance,” which the excitement of the afternoon had made her temporarily forget; anxious also to lead the conversation round again to the English family whose acquaintance she had made so abruptly. “Mamma understands the English,” she said to herself. “I should like to know what sort of people this family Fawcett belongs to. I have heard that in England the sons of the good families may marry to please themselves much more than in France. The young Monsieur Fawcett seems to be an only child. How nicely English gentlemen shake hands! He said ‘au revoir’ too. I wonder if I shall see him again!”
For concerning the seeing him again Geneviève had immediately begun to dream. She was quite satisfied that he was already over head and ears in love with her. For alongside of her precocity and quick-wittedness, a curious credulity, a readiness to be taken in by flattery, and a dangerous amount of so-called “girlish romance,” lay hidden in her character.
Madame Casalis was gratified by her daughter’s unusual request. Geneviève had only just got into bed when her mother appeared. How pretty the child looked, how bright and innocent! Her dark hair in its thick plaits on the pillow making a background for the sweet flushed face, with its deep soft southern eyes! For in appearance at least, Geneviève bore no trace of the northern ancestry she was so proud of.
Some unexpressed feeling made Madame Casalis stoop and kiss her daughter. “Thou hast no uneasiness, no pain of any kind, is it not, my child?” she asked anxiously.
“Not the least in the world, my mother, I assure thee,” answered Geneviève. “Mamma,” she went on, “I forgot to tell thee that the English Lady—Miladi Fawcett, c’est-à-dire—would have wished to accompany me home, to give me safe back to thee and ask thee to forgive them for the fright I had had, but I begged her not to come. I told her it might startle thee to see a stranger. J’ai bien fait, n’est-ce-pas, maman? Mathurine was out too; there was no one to open the door.”
“Oh! yes; it was just as well,” said Madame Casalis somewhat absently.
“And,” continued Geneviève, “Monsieur Fawcett, the son,—monsieur le père is called Sir Fawcett, mamma—what does that mean, is it comte, or baron? The son said he would have had the honour of calling to ask if I was quite recovered, but that they leave Hivèritz early to-morrow. They are going to Switzerland, and then to Paris—ah, how delightful! They travel for the health of madame, miladi, je veux dire.”
“Fawcett, is that their name?” said Madame Casalis consideringly. “It seems indeed to me that I have heard that name formerly. Ah! yes, I remember; it was the name of a family living near to the cousins of my mother. Thou rememberest, Geneviève, I have often told thee of the visit I made to England with thy grand mother when I was jeune fille. La famille Methvyn was very liée with la famille Fawcett. It was soon after the marriage of my cousin Helen to le Colonel Methvyn. It would be curious if they are the same; and if thou shouldst see them again in—”
She stopped abruptly, but it was too late.