other resource had been tried in vain, I went to her; I told her—enough to excite her sympathy, her desire to help you; she promised me you should have the horses to-morrow at one o’clock.”
“You confound me!” said M. Gombard.
“Have no fear, monsieur; Mlle. Bobert is a woman, but—she is to be trusted. The horses will be here at one o’clock.”
“Well, well,” said M. Gombard, “I must not be ungrateful either to you or Mlle. Bobert; it is most kind of you to take so much trouble in my behalf, landlord, and most kind of her to furnish me with the horses. You say she is young; is she pretty?” (Gracious heavens! If the citizens of Loisel had heard this stony-hearted mayor putting such questions!)
“No, monsieur, she is not pretty,” replied the landlord; “she is beautiful.”
“Diable!” exclaimed M. Gombard facetiously.
“Beautiful as an angel,” remarked the landlord, with an accent that seemed to rebuke his guest’s exclamation.
“You appear to have a spécialité for beautiful persons in Cabicol,” said M. Gombard, pouncing on his opportunity; “I met one in the church just now, taking shelter from the rain—the most remarkably beautiful person I ever saw in my life. Who can she be? She lives in the house to the right of the market-place.”
“Excuse me, monsieur, she does not,” said the landlord sadly.
“No? How do you know? Did you see me—did you see her in the church?”