“Why, what is the matter with you, Louis? You are as pale as death.”
“O, nothing, nothing,” I replied, and knocked hard for admittance. I was red enough then. A small servant-girl opened the door, and Father Bonneville asked—“Whether Monsieur Le Comte was at home?”
My hopes about Mariette began to fail, and diminished to a very small point when, on entering a little room, containing a good number of books, I found my acquaintance of the brook-side alone, and without a vestige of woman’s occupation any where visible.
He shook hands with us both, welcomed us heartily, and in common civility I was obliged to repress my curiosity for a time.
“This is my little study,” he said, after some preliminary conversation, “where I teach a few young pupils French, in order to eke out the small means of subsistence I have left. But I thank God for all things, and only regret that I have not enough to aid those of my countrymen who have even less than myself.”
“That is what I fear,” I answered, “that there are many, and amongst them some I deeply love, who may be suffering great distress, while I have a superabundance.”
“There are, indeed, many, Monsieur De Lacy,” he said; but as the words were upon his lips the door opened, and a voice of music said, “May I come in?”
“Certainly, my child,” he replied; but she had taken it for granted, and was in the room. There were the same eyes, the same look, the same beautiful face which I had seen in the carriage, but with a figure, how full of exquisite grace, how perfect in all its symmetry!
If my heart had not told me, at once, that it was Mariette, the glad spring forward with which she flew to the arms of Father Bonneville would have shown me the fact at once.
What possessed me I cannot tell, but I could not speak a word, and stood like a fool, the more confounded from feeling that the eyes of a stranger were upon me—yes, he gazed at me, earnestly, inquiringly. I must, somehow, have betrayed myself.