M. Oberlé had been listening anxiously for a minute. He was able to say:
"Here he is."
The young man came in. The first person he saw was his mother. That made him hesitate. His eyes, young and impressionable, gave a nervous twitch as if they were hurt. Quickly he turned to the sofa, took the hand which the visitor offered him, and gravely but less embarrassed than his father, and with greater coolness he said in French:
"I have just been for a walk. I had to run not to be late, for I promised my father I would be here when you came."
"You are too kind," said the official, laughing. "We speak German with your father, but I am able to carry on a conversation in another tongue besides our national language."
He went on in French, laying stress on the first syllables of the words.
"I admired your park, Monsieur Oberlé, and even all the little country of Alsheim. It is very pretty. You are surrounded, I believe, by a refractory population—almost invisible; in any case, just now as I came through the village I hardly saw a living soul."
"They are in the fields," said Madame Oberlé.
"Who is the Mayor, then?"
"M. Bastian."