There was nothing very original, or poetical, or preternaturally wise in this remark, but coming from those poppy lips, in that young, silvery voice, it sounded like the inspiration of genius to M. Gombard. He replied that she was right, that he was an idiot; in fact, had not his age and his business-like, dry, matter-of-fact appearance offered a guarantee for his sobriety and an excuse for his
attempt at facetiousness, M. Gombard’s jubilant manner and ecstatic air would have led the young lady to fear he was slightly deranged or slightly inebriated. But ugly, elderly gentlemen who wear wigs are a kind of privileged persons to young ladies; they may say anything, almost, under cover of these potent credentials.
“This is a fine old church,” observed M. Gombard presently.
“Yes; we are proud of it at Cabicol. Strangers always admire it,” replied his companion.
“They are right; it is one of the best specimens of the Gothic of the Renaissance I remember to have seen,” said M. Gombard; “this portico reminds one of the cathedral of B——. Have you ever seen it, mademoiselle?”
“No; I have never travelled farther from Cabicol than Luxort.”
“Indeed! How I envy you!” exclaimed the mayor heartily. He was a new man; he was fired with enthusiasm for beauty of every description, in art, in nature, everywhere.
“It is you, rather, who are to be envied for having seen far places and beautiful things!” returned the young girl naïvely. “I wish I could see them too.”
“And why should you not?” demanded M. Gombard; he would have given half his fortune to have been able to say there and then: “Come, and I will show you these strange places, and beautiful things!”
“I am alone,” replied his companion in a low tone; the merry brightness faded from her face, the sweet eyes filled with tears.