“You are mistaken,” said Susie to Bettina;
“there is some one.”
“A peasant; they don’t count; they won’t
ask me to marry them.”
“It is not a peasant at all. Look!”
Paul de Lavardens, while passing the carriage, made
the two sisters a highly correct bow, from which one
at once scented the Parisian.
The ponies were going at such a rate that the meeting
was over like a flash of lightning.
Bettina cried:
“Who is that gentleman who has just bowed to
us?”
“I had scarcely time to see, but I seemed to
recognize him.”
“You recognized him?”
“Yes, and I would wager that I have seen him
at our house this winter.”
“Heavens! if it should be one of the thirty-four!
Is all that going to begin again?”
A LITTLE DINNER FOR FOUR
That same day, at half-past seven, Jean went to fetch
the Cure, and the two walked together up to the house.
During the last month a perfect army of workmen had
taken possession of Longueval; all the inns in the
village were making their fortunes.
Enormous furniture wagons brought cargoes of furniture
and decorations from Paris. Forty-eight hours
before the arrival of Mrs. Scott, Mademoiselle Marbeau,
the postmistress, and Madame Lormier, the mayoress,
had wormed themselves into the castle, and the account
they gave of the interior turned every one’s
head. The old furniture had disappeared, banished
to the attics; one moved among a perfect accumulation
of wonders. And the stables! and the coach-houses!
A special train had brought from Paris, under the
high superintendence of Edwards, a dozen carriages—and
such carriages! Twenty horses—and such
horses!
The Abbe Constantin thought that he knew what luxury
was. Once a year he dined with his bishop, Monseigneur
Faubert, a rich and amiable prelate, who entertained
rather largely. The Cure, till now, had, thought
that there was nothing in the world more sumptuous
than the Episcopal palace of Souvigny, or the castles
of Lavardens and Longueval.
He began to understand, from what he was told of the
new splendors of Longueval, that the luxury of the
great houses of the present day must surpass to a
singular degree the sober and severe luxury of the
great houses of former times.
As soon as the Cure and Jean had entered the avenue
in the park, which led to the house:
“Look! Jean,” said the Cure; “what
a change! All this part of the park used to be
quite neglected, and now all the paths are gravelled
and raked. I shall not be able to feel myself
at home as I used to do: it will be too grand.
I shall not find again my old brown velvet easy-chair,
in which I so often fell asleep after dinner, and if
I fall asleep this evening what will become of me?
You will think of it, Jean, and if you see that I
begin to forget myself, you will come behind me and
pinch my arm gently, won’t you? You promise
me?”
