Each having promised to be polite and attentive, Madame de Moncar drew near Doctor Barnabé.
“Doctor,” said she, seating herself near him, “I perceive some remembrance of former times is connected with this house, which is dear to you. Will you tell it to us? I should be very sorry, indeed, to cause you a grief that it lay in my power to spare you. I will allow the house to remain if you will tell me why you cherish it.”
Doctor Barnabé appeared astonished, and was silent. The countess drew still nearer to him, and said—
“Dear doctor, see what bad weather it is, how dull every thing looks; you are older than any of us, tell us a tale, that we may forget the rain, the fog and the cold.”
The doctor seemed more astonished than ever.
“This is no idle tale,” he said. “That which transpired in the white house is very simple, and can have no interest for any one but myself. Strangers would not credit such a story. And then I cannot descant at length when there are listeners. Besides, what I have to recount is sad, and you have come here to be amused.”
And the doctor again leant his chin on his cane.
“Dear doctor,” returned the countess, “the house shall stand if you will only narrate to us what has caused your love for it.”
The old man seemed moved; he crossed and uncrossed his legs, felt for his snuff-box, replaced it in his pocket unopened, and turned to the countess.
“You will not tear it down,” he said, pointing with his thin and trembling hand to the dwelling which was seen in the horizon.