“But, Monsieur Guillaume,” said Everard, upon whom these words, “this house, which may soon be mine,” made, in spite of himself, a highly disagreeable impression, “I have always heard that for yourself you cared nothing for it—would not have it indeed.”
“I would not give that for it,” said the old man with a snap of his fingers; “a miserable grange, a maison du campagne, a thing of wood and stone! But one has one’s dignity and one’s rights.”
And he elevated his old head, with a snort from the Austin nose, which he possessed in its most pronounced form. Everard did not know whether to take him by the shoulders and to turn him out of the house, or to laugh; but the latter was the easiest. The old shopkeeper was like an old cock strutting about the house which he despised. “I hate your England,” he said, “your rain, your Autumn, your old baraques which you call châteaux. For châteaux come to my country, come to the Pays Bas, monsieur. No, I would not change, I care not for your dirty England. But,” he added, “one has one’s dignity and one’s rights, all the same.”
He was mollified, however, when Stevens came to help him off with his coats, and when Cook sent up the best she could supply on such short notice.
“I thought perhaps, M. Austin, you would like to rest before—dinner,” said Reine, trembling as she said the last word. She hoped still that he would interrupt her, and add, “before we go.”
But no such thought entered into M. Guillaume’s mind. He calculated on staying a few days now that he was here, as he had done before, and being made much of, as then. He inclined his head politely in answer to Reine’s remark, and said, Yes, he would be pleased to rest before dinner; the journey was long and very fatiguing. He thought even that after dinner he would retire at once, that he might be remis for to-morrow. “And I hope, mademoiselle, that your villanous weather will se remettre,” he added. “Bon Dieu, what it must be to live in this country! When the house comes to me, I will sell it, monsieur. The money will be more sweet elsewhere than in this vieux maison delabré, though it is so much to you.”
“But you cannot sell it,” said Reine, flushing crimson, “if it ever should come to you.”
“Who will prevent me?” said M. Guillaume. “Ah, your maudit law of heritage! Tiens! then I will pull it down, mademoiselle,” he said calmly, sipping the old claret, and making her a little bow.
The reader may judge how agreeable M. Guillaume made himself with this kind of conversation. He was a great deal more at his ease than he had ever been with Miss Susan, of whom he stood in awe.
“After this misfortune, this surprise,” he went on, “which has made so much to suffer my poor wife, it goes of my honor to take myself the place of heir. I cannot more make any arrangement, any bargain, monsieur perceives, that one should be able to say Guillaume Austin of Bruges deceived the world to put in his little son, against the law, to be the heir! Oh, these women, these women, how they are weak and wicked! When I heard of it I wept. I, a man, an old! my poor angel has so much suffered; I forgave her when I heard her tale; but that méchante, that Giovanna, who was the cause of all, how could I forgive—and Madame Suzanne? Apropos, where is Madame Suzanne? She comes not, I see her not. She is afraid, then, to present herself before me.”