“It will be a terrible blow to her,” replied Mlle. Moiseney; “she loves him so much!”
“How do you know, since she has not judged it best to tell you?”
“I know from circumstances. Poor dear Antoinette! The greatest consideration must be used in announcing to her this intelligence; and I alone, I believe—”
“I agree with you,” M. Moriaz hastened to interpose; “you alone are capable of operating on our patient without causing her suffering. You are so skilful! your hand is so light! Make the best of the situation, mademoiselle—I leave it to you.”
With these words he took up his hat and cane, and hastened to get away, rather anxious about what had passed, yet feeling too happy, too much rejoiced, to be a good consoler.
It was not long before Mlle. Moriaz returned from her walk. She came humming a ballad; she was joyous, her complexion brilliant, her eyes sparkling, and she carried an armful of heather and ferns. Mlle. Moiseney went to meet her, her face mournful, her head bent down, her glance tearful.
“Why! what is the matter, my dear Joan?” she said; “you look like a funeral.”
“Alas!” sighed Mlle. Moiseney, “I have sad news to communicate.”
“What! have they written to you from Cormeilles that your parrot is dead?”
“Ah, my dear child, be reasonable, be strong; summon up all your courage.”