At first Célestine did not believe her eyes; then, when she did, she began to tremble. Kneeling there on the wet flagging, she trembled and trembled, her big opaque blue eyes raised to the newcomers as if they had been gods arisen from the sea.
His eyes fell upon her. “Hello,” he said shortly, “there’s Madelon!”
“Bonjour, Madelon,” he said, in that French which had so delighted her that day so long ago. “Bonjour, Madelon—do you not remember me?”
The fair-haired girl, standing by his side, her hand trustingly resting on his arm, also was looking down at the kneeling woman. Célestine rose suddenly, and, altogether shaken out of her usual heavy reticence, cried: “My faith—I had thought you dead!”
A burst of laughter from both, after a moment’s hesitation followed her words, and she, too, found herself laughing.
“My faith,” she explained, “you flew away and never came back!”
“It was to Germany I flew, Madelon—not because I wanted to. And you’re not the only one who thought me gone to another place. But now I live in America once more, and this is my new little wife. Shake hands with my little wife, Madelon.”
Célestine wiped her hands laboriously on her apron, and took, in one thick red one, the little white one offered her.
“And now me,” he said, and pumped her hand up and down, while she felt her face distended in a stupid grin.
But there were things to see about, many things. She ran to the valises and began to carry them in. She ran upstairs to the room, and refreshed the sheets and pillow slips; brought clear water. A sort of mad joy was in her heart, and her thick legs were light. In a moment, between jobs, she ran out into the court and, stooping behind the chestnut tree, with one large gesture of her heavy hand, scattered the little white pebbles and whisked the little Virgin into her pocket.