as he passed. It was evidently a plan agreed upon between these lovers that they should come and say their prayers together at a given hour every day. M. Gombard was now certain that Mlle. Bobert was in the Lady Chapel; he quickened his step in that direction. Great was his surprise to find it almost filled with people. The first Mass was at six, the second at ten; the second was just finished. People were rising to come away; soon there were only a few, more fervent than the rest, who lingered on at their devotions. M. Gombard looked eagerly all round. There was a group of several persons going out together. Descrying Mlle. Bobert amongst them, he turned and followed quickly, taking the south aisle so as to reach the portico before her, and have a chance of saluting, perhaps speaking to, her; for might he not, ought he not, lawfully seize this opportunity of thanking her? He stationed himself in the open door-way, standing so that she could not pass without seeing him. The common herd passed out. M. Gombard turned as a light step drew close. He bowed low. “Mademoiselle, I have many thanks to offer you,” he said in a subdued voice, as became the solemn neighborhood. “You have done a great kindness to a perfect stranger. I shall never see you again; but if ever, by chance, by some unspeakable good fortune, it were—in my power, if I could do anything to serve you, I should count it a great hap … I should be only too happy!”
Poor man! How confused he was! He could hardly get the words out. It was pitiable to see his emotion. Mlle. Bobert’s gentle heart was touched.
“Don’t think of it!” she answered
kindly, but with a nervous, timid manner that he was not too absorbed to notice and to wonder at, remembering her unrestrained frankness of yesterday. “It is I who am glad. I wish I had known it sooner, before the market-day. I should have done my best; but I hope it is not too late, that you will esca—that you will get where you want in good time.”
“It is of little consequence, mademoiselle. I care not whether I get there late or early now,” replied M. Gombard.
“Don’t say that! Pray don’t!” said the young girl with great feeling. “I should be so sorry! Good-by, monsieur, good-by.”
She hurried away. Did his eyes deceive him, or were there tears in hers? She was strangely agitated; her voice trembled; there was a choking sound in it when she said that “Good-by, monsieur, good-by!” Did she read his secret on his face, in his manner, his tone, and was she sorry for him? It was not improbable. He hoped it was so. It was something to have her pity, since she could give him nothing more. He watched the slight figure drifting out of sight; the step was less elastic than yesterday; she was depressed, unnerved. What a treasure that odious man had conquered in this tender, loving heart!
The post-chaise was at the door punctually at one. M. Gombard was ready waiting for it when the landlord knocked at his door. The traveller’s air of deep dejection struck a new pang at his feeling heart.
“Monsieur, I trust sincerely you may not be too late,” he said in the quick undertone of strong emotion, as he closed the door of the chaise and leaned forward confidentially.
“Late or not, I shall always remember your kindness, landlord; it signifies little whether I am late or not,” replied the parting guest.