“Have you just come from there?” she asked the official, and, being informed that he had come from his home, she upbraided him for not having kept off the epidemic. He excused himself with polite smiles, to which the lady confusedly replied: “Never mind, then; never mind,” as she hastened her child into the vehicle.
“Did you give him the money?” she whispered to her husband as soon as she was seated beside him. He made a sign in the affirmative.
“I should like to thank her ladyship, too,” began the obsequious mayor, “for the generosity with which—”
“Oh, it was nothing—nothing!” interrupted the Count, scarcely knowing what he said.
Established in the carriage, the Countess made a rapid survey of bags and boxes, coats and shawls, umbrellas and parasols. Her husband in the mean time turned round to see if all the luggage was in its place in the barouche, which had been fastened on behind to the landau. “But,” he suddenly remarked, “what is the matter with that little boy?”
“Yes, who is that crying?” excitedly called out the Countess, leaning far out of the carriage.
“All ready!” exclaimed the peasant who had been assisting the servants with the luggage, and to whose side clung a small, ragged urchin. “Stop, can’t you?” his father bade him, sharply, then repeating the words, “All ready!”
The Count, with his eye on the boy, plunged into one of his pockets. “Don’t give way, my boy; you shall have a soldo all to yourself.”
“Mother is ill,” whined the lad sorrowfully; “mother has the cholera.”
Up jumped the Countess. Her face livid and contorted, she brought down her folded sunshade across the coachman’s back: