“Don’t say that, monsieur, don’t, I entreat you!” said the landlord, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “It would grieve me to the very soul! I swear to you it would! Will you do me one favor?—just to prove that you trust me and believe that I have done my best to forward your es—your wishes: will you send me word by the postilion if you arrive in time?”
“Really, landlord, your interest in my welfare is beyond my comprehension,” said M. Gombard; he had had enough of this effusive sympathy, and at the moment it irritated him.
“Don’t say so, sir! But I understand—you don’t know me; you are afraid to trust me. Well, I will not persist; but if you consent to send me back one word, I shall be the happier for it. And Mlle. Bobert—think of her!”
“Mlle. Bobert! Do you suppose she cares to hear of me again? To know what becomes of me?” asked M. Gombard breathlessly.
“Care, monsieur? She will know no peace until she hears from you; she will reproach herself, as if it had been her fault. You little know what a sensitive heart hers is.”
The postilion gave a preliminary flourish of his whip. Crack! crack! it went with a noise that roused all the population of the Jacques Bonhomme, the inmates of the house, of the back yard and the front; boys, dogs, pigs, ducks, turkeys, geese—all came hurrying to the fore, barking, grumbling, cackling, screaming, and pushing, terrified lest they should be late for the fun.
“I will send you word,” said M. Gombard, pressing mine host’s
hand with an impulse of gratitude and joy too strong for pride. “Adieu! Merci!”
Crack! crack! and away went the post-chaise amidst such a noise and confusion of men and animals as is not to be described. As the horses dashed down the street, M. Gombard beheld the man with the scroll turn the corner. Curiosity was too much for dignity; he looked back: the hat was raised, and the happy rival passed on.
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.