“And what an escort,” jeered Adhemar.
“The old mademoiselle will be open-mouthed before
her pupil, she knows nothing of life. Provided
that Esperance obeys the commandments of the Church
and does not miss Mass on Sunday, she will be satisfied.
Her piety and her sudden love of the theatre coincide
with her attempt to save a soul; but I tell you that
she cannot see farther than the end of her nose, which,
though long enough in all conscience, doesn’t
furnish elevation for much view. And,”
he continued, pleased with his wit, “Maurice
Renaud, that wild rascal, is he apt to inspire respect
for Esperance? As to Jean Perliez, the poor little
ninny is head over heels in love with her. I
don’t suppose that you have noticed it?”
“Not only noticed it, but encouraged the young
man,” said Francois, “and he would be
a very honourable and desirable son-in-law.”
“My poor friend, my good fellow,” and
Adhemar collapsed in a chair and rubbed his hands
together; “my poor dear friend, and you believe
that Esperance...?”
He laughed aloud.
“I will thank you to drop that tone of irony
which is offensive both to my wife and to myself,”
said the professor rising. “If it pleases
you to follow your goddaughter to Brussels, do so.
I must leave you; I have some proofs to correct. Au
revoir, Meydieux!”
The old blunderer began to realize that he had overstepped
the limits of decorum.
“But why did she go this morning, instead of
by the train with all the other artists this evening?”
“Esperance,” explained Madame Darbois,
“left early in order to have time to see Brussels,
which everyone says is a charming city. I think
it is quite natural, my dear Meydieux, that you want
to join your goddaughter! I will telegraph to
her at once!”
“No, no,” replied Meydieux, very hurriedly.
“I would much rather surprise her. I beg
you not to warn her.”
“As you will then. I shall not interfere.”
Meantime seated in the Brussels express, Esperance
had fixed her attention on the constantly changing
horizon, and was giving herself up to myriad impressions
as they went fleeting by. The great plains rolling
interminably out of sight pleased her; the light mist
rising from the earth seemed to her the breath of
the shivering tall grasses, offering the sun the drops
of dew which glinted at the summit of their slender
stems. She too, on this beautiful autumn morning,
felt herself expanding towards the sky. Her fresh
lips were offering themselves to the kisses of life.
She was at that moment a vision of the radiance of
youth. Maurice was so struck by her beauty that
he drew a little sketch, and resolved to do her portrait,
just as she was at that moment. No love entered
into this admiration; he saw as a painter, he dreamed
