“Do me the honor to take my arm, mademoiselle,” he said, without answering her inquiry. It was done in the kindest way—just as if she had been the daughter of an old friend. The young girl gathered her pretty cashmere dress well in one hand, and slipped the other into the arm of her protector. They crossed the market-place quickly, and were soon at the door of the house she had pointed out.
“Thank you! I am so much obliged to you, monsieur!”
“Mademoiselle, I am too happy—”
She smiled at him with her laughing brown eyes, and he turned away, a changed man, elated, bewildered, walking upon air. He walked on in the rain, his feet sinking ankle-deep in parts where the snow was thick and had been melted into slush by the heavy shower. He did not think now whether there was anything to visit to pass the rest of the day; his one idea was to find out the name of this beautiful creature, then to see her again, offer her his hand and fortune, if her position were not too far above his own, and be the happiest of men for the rest of his life. He was fifty years of age; but what of that? His heart was twenty; he had not worn it out in butterfly passions, “fancies, light as air,” and ephemeral as summer gnats. This was his first love, and few men half his age had that virgin gift to place in the
bridal corbeille. Then how respected he was by his fellow-citizens! M. Gombard saw them already paying homage to his young wife; saw all the magnates congratulating him, and the fine ladies calling on Madame Gombard. When he reached the Jacques Bonhomme he was in the seventh heaven. The landlord saw him from the window of the bar, and hurried out to meet him with a countenance blanched with terror.
“Good heavens, monsieur! you have ventured out into the town. You have been abroad all this time! What mad imprudence!” he whispered.
“Eh! Imprudence? Not the least, my good sir,” replied the mayor, descending with a painful jump from his celestial altitude; “my boots are snow-proof, and behold my umbrella!” He swung it round, shut it up with a click, and held it proudly at arm’s length, while the wet streamed down its seams as from a spout.
“Marvellous man!” muttered the landlord, staring at him aghast. “But hasten in now, I entreat you. You ordered dinner at three; it will be served to you in your room.”
“Just as it pleases you,” returned M. Gombard complacently. “I don’t mind where I get it, provided it be good.”
“Monsieur, for heaven’s sake be prudent!” said the landlord; he took the umbrella from him, and hung it outside the door to drip.