“Ah, listen, sir!” she cried despairingly, “I have not explained everything. I had three sons and they are all dead. The last one taught mathematics, and one day during the winter, when he was going from the Pantheon to Chaptal College he caught a violent cold which settled on his lungs and carried him off in two weeks. He had supported me and his child by teaching; the expenses of his illness and death used up all our little savings, and I had to raise money on my pension. Now I am alone in the world with my grandchild, and we have nothing. I am eighty-two years old, sir.”
Tears had gathered under her wrinkled eyelids as she spoke, and the deputy governor was listening more attentively than he had done at first. A peculiar singing intonation of the speaker’s voice, and the sound of certain provincial expressions seemed to his ears like once familiar music; the old lady’s way of speaking had for him a flavor of home which produced a most singular sensation in his mind. He rang his bell and sent for Madame Blouet’s “papers,” and when the sedate usher had laid a thin package before him, he examined the yellow pages with evident interest.
“You are from Lorraine, I see, Madame,” he said at last, turning toward her a face less stern, and on which a faint smile was seen, “I suspected it from your accent.”
“Yes, Sir, I am from Argonne,” she answered, “and you recognized my accent! I thought I had long singe lost it—I have been knocking about France like a flying camp.”
The deputy governor looked with increasing compassion at this poor widow whom a harsh wind had torn from her native forest, and cast into Paris like a withered leaf. He felt his official heart growing softer, and smiling again, he said:
“I also am from Argonne. I lived near your village for a long time, at Clermont,” and then he added gaily, “keep up your courage, Madame Blouet, I hope we shall be able to help you. Will you give me your address?”
“Number 12, Rue de la Sante, near the Capuchin convent. Thank you, Sir, for your kindness. I am very glad to have found a fellow countryman,” and after repeated courtesies the widow took her departure.
As soon as she was gone M. Boinville rose, and going to the window stood looking down into the garden with his face against the glass. But he was not looking at the tops of the half leafless chestnut trees; his dreamy gaze wandered far off toward the East, beyond the plains and the chalky hills of Champagne, past a large forest, to a valley where a quiet river flowed between two rows of poplar trees, to a little old town with tile-roofed houses. There his early childhood had been passed, and later, his vacations. His father, who was registrar in the office of the Chief Justice, led a narrow, monotonous life, and he himself was early accustomed to hard work and strict discipline. He had left home when in his twenty-first year and had returned only to attend his father’s funeral. Possessing a superior intellect and an iron will, and being an indefatigable worker he had risen rapidly on the official ladder, and at thirty-eight years of age was made deputy governor. Austere, punctual, reserved, and coldly polite, he arrived at his office every morning at exactly ten o’clock and remained there until six, taking work with him when he went home. Although he was possessed of keen sensibilities, his bearing was so reserved and undemonstrative that he was thought cold and stern; he saw very little of society, his life being devoted to business, and he had never had enough leisure to think of marrying. His heart indeed, had once asserted itself, before he had left home, but as he then had neither position nor fortune, the girl he loved had refused him in order to marry a rich tradesman. This early disappointment had left in Hubert Boinville a feeling of bitterness which even the other successes of his life could not wholly efface, and there was still a tinge of melancholy in his being. The old lady’s voice and accent had recalled the thought of the past, and his quiet was overwhelmed by a flood of recollections. While he stood there motionless, with his forehead pressing against the window-pane, he was stirring, as one would a heap of dead leaves, the long slumbering memories of his youth, and like a sweet delicate perfume, rose the thoughts of by-gone scenes and days.
Suddenly he returned to his chair, drew Madame Blouet’s petition to him, and wrote upon it the words, very deserving case. Then he rang his bell, and sent the document to the clerk in charge of the relief fund.
On the day of the official assent to Madame Blouet’s petition, Mr. Boinville left his office earlier than usual, for the idea had occurred to him, to announce the good news himself to his aged countrywoman.