to be tied by the foot like an ass, without settling down on his back like a cast sheep. “Give me the armchair. I’ll sit in it, and, if I have any friends, they will show it now: they will come and tell me what is going on in the village, for I can’t get out to see it and hear it, they must know that.”
Seated in state in his granny’s easy-chair, the loss of which after thirty years’ use made her miserable, she couldn’t tell why, le Sieur Dard awaited his friends.
They did not come.
The rain did, and poured all the afternoon. Night succeeded, and solitude. Dard boiled over with bitterness. “They are a lot of pigs then, all those fellows I have drunk with at Bigot’s and Simmet’s. Down with all fair-weather friends.”
The next day the sun shone, the air was clear, and the sky blue. “Ah! let us see now,” cried Dard.
Alas! no fellow-drinkers, no fellow-smokers, came to console their hurt fellow. And Dard, who had boiled with anger yesterday, was now sad and despondent. “Down with egotists,” he groaned.
About three in the afternoon came a tap at the door.
“Ah! at last,” cried Dard: “come in!”
The door was slowly opened, and two lovely faces appeared at the threshold. The demoiselles De Beaurepaire wore a tender look of interest and pity when they caught sight of Dard, and on the old woman courtesying to them they courtesied to her and Dard. The next moment they were close to him, one a little to his right, the other to his left, and two pair of sapphire eyes with the mild lustre of sympathy playing down incessantly upon him. How was he? How had he slept? Was he in pain? Was he in much pain? tell the truth now. Was there anything to eat or drink he could fancy? Jacintha should make it and bring it, if it was within their means. A prince could not have had more solicitous attendants, nor a fairy king lovelier and less earthly ones.
He looked in heavy amazement from one to the other. Rose bent, and was by some supple process on one knee, taking the measure of the wounded foot. When she first approached it he winced: but the next moment he smiled. He had never been touched like this—it was contact and no contact—she treated his foot as the zephyr the violets—she handled it as if it had been some sacred thing. By the help of his eye he could just know she was touching him. Presently she informed him he was measured for a list shoe: and she would run home for the materials. During her absence came a timid tap to the door; and Edouard Riviere entered. He was delighted to see Josephine, and made sure Rose was not far off. It was Dard who let out that she was gone to Beaurepaire for some cloth to make him a shoe. This information set Edouard fidgeting on his chair. He saw such a chance as was not likely to occur again. He rose with feigned nonchalance, and saying, “I leave you in good hands; angel visitors are best enjoyed alone,” slowly retired, with a deep obeisance. Once outside the door, dignity vanished in alacrity; he flew off into the park, and ran as hard as he could towards the chateau. He was within fifty yards of the little gate, when sure enough Rose emerged. They met; his heart beat violently. “Mademoiselle,” he faltered.
“Ah! it is Monsieur Riviere, I declare,” said Rose, coolly; all over blushes though.
“Yes, mademoiselle, and I am so out of breath. Mademoiselle Josephine awaits you at Dard’s house.”
“She sent you for me?” inquired Rose, demurely.
“Not positively. But I could see I should please her by coming for you; there is, I believe, a bull or so about.”
“A bull or two! don’t talk in that reckless way about such things. She has done well to send you; let us make haste.”
“But I am a little out of breath.”
“Oh, never mind that! I abhor bulls.”
“But, mademoiselle, we are not come to them yet, and the faster we go now the sooner we shall.”
“Yes; but I always like to get a disagreeable thing over as soon as possible,” said Rose, slyly.
“Ah,” replied Edouard, mournfully, “in that case let us make haste.”
After a little spurt, mademoiselle relaxed the pace of her own accord, and even went slower than before. There was an awkward silence. Edouard eyed the park boundary, and thought, “Now what I have to say I must say before we get to you;” and being thus impressed with the necessity of immediate action, he turned to lead.
Rose eyed him and the ground, alternately, from under her long lashes.
At last he began to color and flutter. She saw something was coming, and all the woman donned defensive armor.
“Mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur.”
“Is it quite decided that your family refuse my acquaintance, my services, which I still—forgive me—press on you? Ah! Mademoiselle Rose, am I never to have the happiness of—of—even speaking to you?”
“It seems so,” said Rose, ironically.
“Have you then decided against me too?”
“I?” asked Rose. “What have I to do with questions of etiquette? I am only a child: so considered at least.”
“You a child—an angel like you?”
“Ask any of them, they will tell you I am a child; and it is to that I owe this conversation, no doubt; if you did not look on me as a child, you would not take this liberty with me,” said the young cat, scratching without a moment’s notice.
“Mademoiselle, do not be angry. I was wrong.”
“Oh! never mind. Children are little creatures without reserve, and treated accordingly, and to notice them is to honor them.”
“Adieu then, mademoiselle. Try to believe no one respects you more than I do.”
“Yes, let us part, for there is Dard’s house; and I begin to suspect that Josephine never sent you.”
“I confess it.”
“There, he confesses it. I thought so all along; WHAT A DUPE I HAVE BEEN!”
“I will offend no more,” said poor silly Edouard. “Adieu, mademoiselle. May you find friends as sincere as I am, and more to your taste!”
“Heaven hear your prayers!” replied the malicious thing, casting up her eyes with a mock tragic air.
Edouard sighed; a chill conviction that she was both heartless and empty fell on him. He turned away without another word. She called to him with a sudden airy cheerfulness that made him start. “Stay, monsieur, I forgot—I have a favor to ask you.”
“I wish I could believe that:” and his eyes brightened.
Rose stopped, and began to play with her parasol. “You seem,” said she softly, “to be pretty generous in bestowing your acquaintance on strangers. I should be glad if I might secure you for a dear friend of mine, Dr. Aubertin. He will not discredit my recommendation; and he will not make so many difficulties as we do; shall I tell you why? Because he is really worth knowing. In short, believe me, it will be a valuable acquaintance for you—and for him,” added she with all the grace of the De Beaurepaires.
Many a man, inferior in a general way to Edouard Riviere, would have made a sensible reply to this. Such as, “Oh, any friend of yours, mademoiselle, must be welcome to me,” or the like. But the proposal caught Edouard on his foible, his vanity, to wit; and our foibles are our manias. He was mortified to the heart’s core. “She refuses to know me herself,” thought he, “but she will use my love to make me amuse that old man.” His heart swelled against her injustice and ingratitude, and his crushed vanity turned to strychnine. “Mademoiselle,” said he, bitterly and doggedly, but sadly, “were I so happy as to have your esteem, my heart would overflow, not only on the doctor but on every honest person around. But if I must not have the acquaintance I value more than life, suffer me to be alone in the