“Allow me to rest a little,” said M. Mouillard, “in order that I may be in a better condition to receive my guests.”
He lay down again, and showed clearly his intention of saying not another word on the subject.
During the conversation between M. Charnot and my uncle, to which we had listened from the foot of the staircase, Jeanne, who had a moment before been rejoicing over the completeness of the victory which she thought she had achieved, grew quite downhearted.
“I thought he had forgiven you when he kissed me,” she said. “What can we do now? Can’t you help us, Madeleine?”
Madeleine, whose heart was beginning to warm to Jeanne, sought vainly for an expedient, and shook her head.
“Ought he to go and see his uncle?” asked Jeanne.
“No,” said Madeleine.
“Well, suppose you write to him, Fabien?”
Madeleine nodded approval, and drew from the depths of her cupboard a little glass inkstand, a rusty penholder, and a sheet of paper, at the top of which was a dove with a twig in its beak.
“My cousin at Romorantin died just before last New Year’s Day,” she explained; “so I had one sheet more than I needed.”