“Mon dieu! madame, do not mind what I said. It will be torn down, doubtless, since such is your wish.”
“But why do you regret this decayed old building?”
“Because—alas! because it was inhabited by those I loved, and—”
“And do they intend to return to it, doctor?”
“They are dead—long since, madame—they died when I was young.”
And the old man gazed sadly at the white house, which rose from the woods on the hill like a daisy springing mid the grass.
There were some moments of silence.
“Madame,” said one of the party, aside to Madame de Moncar, “there is a mystery in this: see how sad our Esculapius has grown; some pathetic drama has taken place down there; a youthful love perhaps. Let us ask the doctor to tell us the story.”
“Yes, yes,” was whispered on all sides, “let us have the narrative. A tale, a tale, and if there is no interest in it, we shall have the eloquence of the orator to amuse us.”
“Not so, gentlemen,” Madame de Moncar answered, in a low tone, “if I ask Dr. Barnabé to tell the story of the white house, it is on condition that no one shall laugh.”