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’huile. The good

doctor’s advice failed. She fasted in bed all day, declaring that, headache apart, she was perfectly well, and the following morning, a wraith of

herself, arose and went abo

ut her ordinar

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y avocations. “But what is the matter with her?” asked Bigourdin of Martin. “Nothing could have disagreed with her at that abominable dinner, because she didn’t

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ise, Bigourdin lit a cigarette and inhaled a huge puff. “It needs a woman, voyez-vous, to look after a young girl. Men are no good. Ther

” So fatiguing had

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e are a heap of secrets——” With his arms he indicated Mount Blanc piled on Mount Everest. “I

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shall be glad when she is well and duly married. Perhaps the approaching betrothal affects her.

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Women have nerves like that. She is anxious to know the result of the negotiations. At the pres

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ent moment the Viriots are free to make or make not their demand. It would be good

to reassure her a little. What do you think?” Martin gave utterance to the profound apophthegm: “There is nothing so upsetting as uncertainty.” “That is my idea!” cried Bigourdin. “Pardon me for consulting you on these details so intimate and a little sacred. But you have a clear intelligence and a loyal heart.” So it came to pass that, after déjeuner, Bigourdin took Félise into their own primly and plushily furnished salon, and, like an amiable bull in a boudoir, proceeded to smash up the whole of her universe. “There is no doubt,” he proclaimed, “Monsieur and Madame Viriot have dreamed of it for ten years. I give you a dowry—there is no merit in it, because I love you like my own daughter?/p>

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猙ut I give you a dowry such as there are not many in Périgord. Lucien loves you. He is bon gar?on. It has never entered his head to think of another woman for his wife. It is all arranged. In two or three days—you must allow fo

hat Félis

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team member

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r the convenances—Monsieur Viriot and Luc

ien will call on me. So, my dear little angel, do not be afraid.” Félise had listened to this, white-faced and hollow-eyed. “But I

e, for the follow me follow me follow me
team member

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don’t want to marry Lucien, mon oncle!”

“Comment? You don’t want to marry Lucien?” “No, mon oncle.” “But——” He swept the air with a protesting gesture. “I have

first tim follow me follow me follow me
team member

Gretchen J. Mcdonald

already told you so,” said Félise. “B

ut, ma chère petite, that wasn’t serious. It was because you had some stupid and beautiful idea of not deserting me. That is all imb

e since th follow me follow me follow me

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ecile. Young people must marry, sacrebleu! so that the race is perpetuated, and fa

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thers and mothers and uncles don’t count.” “But what has that

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to do with it, mon oncle?” protested Félise. “I find Lucien ver

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y charming; but I don’t love him. If I loved him, I would marry h

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im. But as I don’t love him, I can’t marry him.” “But marry h

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im and you will love him,” cried Bigourdin, as millions of French

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fathers and uncles have cried for the last three or four hundred

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years. “It is very simple. What more do you want than a gallant f

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ellow like Lucien?” Then, of course, she broke down, and began t

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o cry. Bigourdin, unused t

o feminine tears, tried to clutc

h his hair. If it had been longer than half an inch of upstanding bristle, he would have torn it. “You don’t understand, mon oncle,” she sobbed, with bowed head. “It is only my mother who can advise me. I must see my mother.” Bigourdin put his arm round the girl’s slender shoulders. “Your mother, my poor Félise, sees nobody.” She raised her head an

phémie, her p

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d flashed out: “She sees my father. She lives with him in the same house. Why sho

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uldn’t she see me?” “Tiens, tiens, my little Félise,” said Bigourdin soothingly. “There i

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s no need for you to consult your mother. Both your father and your mother have a long while ago

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decided that you should marry Lucien. Do you think I would take a step of which they did not ap

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prove?” “A long while ago is not to-day,” sobbed Félise. “I want to talk to my mother.”

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Bigourdin walked across the salon, with his back to her, and snapped his fingers in peculiar agi

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tation, and muttered below his breath: “Nom de Dieu, de nom de Dieu, de nom de Dieu!” Kindest-

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hearted of mortals though he was, he resented the bottom being knocked out of his

scheme of social existence.

For years he had looke

d forward to this alliance with the Viriots. Personally he

had nothing to gain:

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on the contrary, he stood to lose the services of Félise and a hundred thousand francs. But he had set his heart on it, and so had the Viriots. To go to them and say, “My niece refuses to marry your son,” would be a slash of the whip across their faces. His failure to bring up a young girl in the proper sentiments would be a disgrace to him in the eyes of the community. He felt hurt, too, because he no l

ersonal at

onger sufficed her; she want

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wore to himself softly. “But, mon Dieu,” said he, turning round. “What have you against Lucien?” Whereupon they went over all the

argument again. She did not

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Then you will die an old maid,” said Bigourdin. “An old maid, figure-toi! It would be terrible!” Félise sniffed at such terrors. Bi

gourdin, in desperation, ask

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ll me, my little Félise,” said he, gently, “there is, by chance, no one else?” Then Félise waxed indignant and routed the unhappy

man. She gave him to underst

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enmaid. It was cruel and insulting to accuse her of clandestine love-affairs. And Bigourdin, bound by his honourable conventions, knew t

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hat she was justified in her resentment. Again he plucked at his bristles, scared by the spectacle of outraged maide

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nhood. The tender-eyed dove had become a flashing little eagle. A wilier man than he might have suspected the over-p

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rotesting damsel. Woman-like, she pressed her advantage. “Mon oncle, I love you with all my heart, but you are a m

aves which in

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an and you don’t understand.” “That is absolutely true,” said he. “So you s

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ee there is only one person I can explain it to, and that is my mother.” Thus she completed the vicious little circle. And again the helpless Bigourdin walked across the salon and turned his back on her and muttered the incantation which brings relief to distracted man. But t

01 One Fourth

his time she went up to him and put an arm round his great body and laid her face against his sleeve. “Tu sais, je suis bien malheureuse.” It was a knife stuck in the honest fellow’s heart. He caught her to him and in his turn protested vehemently. He would n

02 One Fourth

ot allow her to be unhappy. He would cut off his head rather than allow her to be unhappy. He would do anything—his French caution forbade an offer to send the Viriots packing—anything in reason to bring the colour back to her white cheeks. Suddenly he had an i

03 One Fourth

nspiration which glowed all over his broad face and caused him to hold her out at arms’ length and laugh joyously. “You can’t see your mother—but there is your good Aunt Clothilde. She will be a second mother to you. A woman so pious and so sympathetic. You w

04 One Fourth

ill be able to tell her all your troubles. She has married a regiment of daughters. What she doesn’t know of young girls isn’t worth knowing. You are tired, you are ill. You need a change, a little holiday. Go and spend a month with her, and when you come back w

01 One Half

e’ll see what can be done with regard to Lucien. I’ll write to her now.” And without waiting to hear her demure “Bien, mon oncle,” he escaped to the bureau where he should find the writing materials which did not profane the sacred primness of the salon, and

02 One Half

plunged into correspondence. Félise, left alone, pondered for a moment or two, with faint wrinkling of her smooth forehead, and then, sketching a gesture of fatalistic resignation, went off to the kitchen, where a great special boiling of goose livers was in pro

01 One Third

gress. On the way she met Martin carrying a load of porcelain pots. But she passed him by coldly; and for the rest of the day she scarcely threw at him a couple of words. Meanwhile Bigourdin beamed over the letter to his elder sister Clothilde, a comfortable and

02 One Third

almost opulent widow who lived at Chartres. They had not met for a dozen years, it is true, and she had only once seen Félise; but the sense of the family is very strong in France, especially where marriage alliances are concerned, and he had no doubt that she wo

03 One Third

uld telegraph, as requested, and authorise him to entrust Félise to her keeping. Verily it had been an inspiration. It was a solution of difficulties. The Viriots had given signs of an almost indecent hurry, which naturally had scared Félise. A month was a long

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time. Clothilde was a woman of experience, tact and good sense. She would know how to bring Félise to a reasonable state of mind. If she did not succeed—well—he was not the man to force his little Félise into a distasteful marriage. In any case he had a month’s respite. H

  • French households is the
  • panacea for all
  • ills, and, good and com
  • fortable gossip, extol
  • led, in Gallic hyperbole, the
  • dazzling qualities of Monsieur Luc
  • ien. At last, fever-eyed and d
  • esperate, Félise sat up in bed an
  • d pointed to the door.
  • “Ma bonne Euph?/li>
  • ie, laisse-moi tranqui
  • lle! Va-t’en! Fich’-
  • moi la paix!” Euphémie gaped in bewildermen
  • t. It was as though a dove had screamed:
  • “Leave me alone! Go away! Go to Blazes!”

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aving stated his case at length, he went out into the town to post such an important letter at the central Postes et Télégraphes, and on the way back, looked in at the shop of the very respectable Madame Chauvet, who, with her two elderly daughters, sold crucifixes and rosari

$100

es and books of devotion and candles and a

ll that would supply the devout needs of the religious population. And after a prolonged and courtly conversation, he induced Ma

  • “Ah, la! la! ma pauvre petite
  • !” Euphémie knew not what she wa
  • s saying, but she went. She went t
  • o Bigourdin and told him that

$200

dame Chauvet, in consideration of their ol

d friendship, her expenses and an honorarium of twenty francs, to undertake the safe convoy of Félise from Brant?me to the hous

  • elle was in delirium, she had
  • brain-fever, and if he wanted to s
  • ave her reason, he must send at on
  • ce for the doctor. The doctor

$300

e of Madame Robineau, her Aunt Clothilde,

at Chartres. CHAPTER XI MADAME ROBINEAU was tall, angular, thin-lipped and devout, and so far as she indulged in social in

  • agnosed a chill on the vaguest
  • of symptoms, and ordered soupe à
  • l’huile. This invalid fare is a
  • thin vegetable soup with a lay

$400

tercourse, loved to mingle with other angula

r, thin-lipped and devout ladies who belonged to the same lay sisterhood. She dressed in unrelieved black and always wore on her

  • lad oil floating on the top wi
  • th the object of making the liquid
  • slip gratefully down the gullet:
  • the French gullet, be it under

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bosom a bronze cross of threatening magnitude. She prayed in the Cathedral at inconvenient hours, and fasted as rigorously as her Confessor, Monsieur l’Abbé Duloup, himself. Monsieur l’Abbé regarded her as one of the most pious women in Chartres. No doubt she was. But Fé

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lise, although a good Catholic in her very simple way, and anxious to win favour by observance of the rules of the solitary household, was wicked enough to wish that her aunt were not quite so pious. In religious matters a wide latitudinarianism prevailed at the H?tel des Grott

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es. There, with a serene conscience, one could eat meat on Fridays and crack a mild joke at the expense of the good Saint Peter.

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But neither forbidden flesh nor jocularity on any subject, let alone on a saint’s minor foibles, mitigated the austerities of

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the perky, wind-swept little house at Chartres. No wonder, thought Félise, Aunt Clothilde had married off a regiment of daughte

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rs—four to be exact; it had been an easy matter; she herself would have married a

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ny caricature of a man rather than spend her life in an atmosphere so rarefied and so depressing. She pitied her cousins, although, according to her Aunt Clothilde’s pragmatical account, they were all doing splendidly and had innumerable babies. By the end of the first week of her visit,

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she consolidated an intense dislike to Chart

res and everything in it, especially t

he Cathedral. Now, it ma

y be thought t

hat any one wh

o can shake the

fist of disa

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pprobation at the Cathedral of Chartres, is beyond the p

ale of human sympathy. But when you are dragged relentlessly thither in the icy

dark of every winter morning, and the bitter gloom of ev

ery winter evening, to say nothing of sporadic attendances during the daytime, y

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