He was, in truth, greatly agitated. The only hand that he could use was pulling and tearing at the little blue cape crossed on his breast, in which his mother had wrapped him; and this unsuitable garment formed such a queer contrast to the expression of his face that Giselle, in her nervous excitement, burst out laughing, an explosion of merriment which completed the exasperation of Madame d’Argy.
“Never!” she cried, beside herself. “You hear me—never will I consent, whatever happens!”
At that moment the door was partly opened, and a servant announced “Monsieur l’Abbe Bardin.”
Madame d’Argy made a gesture which was anything but reverential.
“Well, to be sure—this is the right moment with a vengeance! What does he want! Does he wish me to assist in some good work—or to undertake to collect money, which I hate.”
“Above all, mother,” cried Fred, “don’t expose me to the fatigue of receiving his visit. Go and see him yourself. Giselle will take care of your patient while you are gone. Won’t you, Giselle?”
His voice was soft, and very affectionate. He evidently was not angry at what she had dared to say, and she acknowledged this to herself with an aching heart.
“I don’t exactly trust your kind of care,” said Madame d’Argy, with a smile that was not gay, and certainly not amiable.
She went, however, because Fred repeated:
“But go and see the Abbe Bardin.”