Sickness was no longer thought of. Jeannette, happy and triumphant, rapidly regained her strength. The poor silly child only thought of her new dresses and of the promised visit to Paris after her marriage, the delights of which Isidore dwelt upon in glowing terms, which would have turned a stronger head than hers. Never, in fact, did a family rush blindfolded and more willingly into a bottomless abyss.
However, there was one person at Muiceron whose presence tormented M. Isidore, and whom he had hated from the first day. You can guess it was Jean-Louis. Each time that he entered the house and saw that tall figure, the face pale and serious, silently seated in a corner, the only one who did not receive him with joy, his eyes flashed with anger, and he would turn his back on him in the most contemptuous manner—something which the Ragauds would certainly have resented in any one else; but the poor people were so bewitched they were unjust enough to be angry with Jean-Louis, and even to fancy that he was jealous, whilst he was only very properly grieved at what had happened.
His life had become very different. No more friendly talks, no more watching for him, no more tender caresses; not that they had ceased to love him, but there was no time for these innocent family recreations, and, besides, it would have embarrassed them to make a display of affection before M. Isidore, who thought all such country performances beneath him. Poor Jean-Louis, who for so many years had always entered Muiceron with joyful heart at the thought of embracing his dear mother, now came in with sad and troubled brow. Pierrette always appeared busy and worried. She would rapidly say "good-evening" in reply to Jeannet's gentle salutation whispered in her ear, and immediately go on with her work; for there were always sauce-pans to overlook, or orders to give to Marion, who was not the least bewildered of them all. As for Jeannette, the cold manner in which Jean-Louis always treated her intended, and, above all, the wicked insinuations Isidore made against him, aroused her displeasure; and, if Pierrette was always absorbed in her household cares, Jeannette pained him still more by her frigid manner, bordering on sullenness.
Jean-Louis felt all this most keenly. He was not a person who liked to complain or ask explanations; besides, what would he have gained by it? He knew too well the reason of their conduct to be obliged to ask why. In a moment he could have changed all by appearing as delighted as the rest; but that was precisely what he would not do. In truth, when we see those we love at the point of drowning, how can we applaud?
Still worse was it when the family circle of Muiceron was increased by the presence of old Perdreau, who nearly every evening showed his weasel-face at the table, and drank with great friendliness to the health of the good people whose ruin he was mercilessly plotting. Jean-Louis two or three times bore it patiently; then he felt he could take himself off, and be missed by no one; so one fine evening he mustered up courage, left the farm before supper, and went off to the house of his friends, the Luguets.
As usual, he found the little house quiet, clean, and shining with neatness. Pierre was reading aloud the life of a saint, while Solange, always employed, was sewing by the lamp. Their old parents and Jacques Michou, seated around the fire, listened in silence, and the dog lay snoring on the warm hearth-stones. Jeannet on entering motioned with his hand for them not to stir, and seated himself by Solange, who nodded to him.
"My friends," said Jean-Louis when the reading was over, "I have come to ask for my supper this evening, and perhaps I may again to-morrow."
"Whenever you please, my boy," said Luguet.
"Things don't please you at Muiceron, eh?" asked Michou.
"Ah!" replied Jeannet sadly, "perhaps I am unjust and wrong; but I cannot bring myself to help in that marriage."