“You will remember your promises, will you not?” asked the lady gently, fixing her eyes on his.
Rouvière bowed and turned away abruptly.
“You will write to our daughter, George? You will not fail?”
“I will write to her—to both of you—often, often,” answered George in a husky voice, and pulling his travelling-cap over his eyes.
“The 12th of January!” suddenly exclaimed Rouvière, who was warming his feet at the fire, while he examined an almanac placed on the chimney-piece. “Is it really the 12th of January to-day?”
“It really is,” replied Mme. Dupuis. “Why do you ask? Is there any particular remembrance attached to that date?”
“It is a date which interests me only,” replied Rouvière in a tone of infinite sadness. “Five years ago this very evening, almost at this same hour, I was passing through an ordeal I shall never forget. Now, George, are you ready?” he added with abrupt impatience.
“What kind of an ordeal? What had happened to you? An accident?” asked George, with intense interest.
“No, not an accident, but I was very ill, which is always a misfortune—and ill in an inn, which is horrible.”
“People are ill everywhere,” remarked Dupuis sententiously.