FINALLY François drew the latch of the door, and beheld, instead of
Madeleine, a lovely young girl, rosy as a May morning, and lively as a
linnet. She said to him, with an engaging manner: "What is it you want,
young man?"
Though she was so fair to see, François did not waste time in looking
at her, but cast his eyes round the room in search of Madeleine. He saw
nothing but the closed curtains of her bed, and he was sure that she was
in it. He did not wait to answer the pretty girl, who was Mariette
Blanchet, the miller's youngest sister, but without a word walked up to
the yellow bed and pulled the curtains noiselessly aside; there he saw
Madeleine Blanchet lying asleep, pale and wasted with fever.
He looked at her long and fixedly, without moving or speaking; and in
spite of his grief at her illness, and his fear of her dying, he was yet
happy to have her face before him, and to be able to say: "I see
Madeleine."
Mariette Blanchet pushed him gently away from the bed, drew the curtains
together, and beckoned to him to follow her to the fireside.
"Now, young man," said she, "who are you, and what do you want? I do not
know you, and you are a stranger in the neighborhood. Tell me how I may
oblige you."
François did not listen to her, and instead of answering her, he began
to ask questions about how long Madame Blanchet had been ill, whether
she were in any danger, and whether she were well cared for.
Mariette answered that Madeleine had been ill since her husband's death,
because she had overexerted herself in nursing him, and watching at his
bedside, day and night; that they had not as yet sent for the doctor,
but that they would do so in case she was worse; and as to her being
well cared for, Mariette declared that she knew her duty and did not
spare herself.
At these words, the waif looked the girl full in the face, and had no
need to ask her name, for besides knowing that soon after he had left
the mill, Master Blanchet had placed his sister in his wife's charge, he
detected in the pretty face of this pretty girl a striking resemblance
to the sinister face of the dead miller. There are many fine and
delicate faces which have an inexplicable likeness to ugly ones; and
though Mariette Blanchet's appearance was as charming as that of her
brother had been disagreeable, she still had an unmistakable family
look. Only the miller's expression had been surly and irascible, while
Mariette's was mocking rather than resentful, and fearless instead of
threatening.
So it was that François was neither altogether disturbed nor altogether
at ease concerning the attention Madeleine might receive from this young
girl. Her cap was of fine linen, neatly folded and pinned; her hair,
which she wore somewhat after the fashion of town-bred girls, was very
lustrous, and carefully combed and parted; and both her hands and her
apron were very white for a sick-nurse. In short, she was much too
young, fresh, and gay to spend the day and night in helping a person who
was unable to help herself.
François asked no more questions, but sat down in the chimney-corner,
determined not to leave the place until he saw whether his dear
Madeleine's illness turned for the better or worse.
Mariette was astonished to see him take possession of the fire so
cavalierly, just as if he were in his own house. He stared into the
blaze, and as he seemed in no humor for talking, she dared inquire no
further who he was and what was his business. After a moment, Catherine,
who had been the house-servant for eighteen or twenty years, came into
the room. She paid no attention to him, but approached the bed of her
mistress, looked at her cautiously, and then turned to the fireplace, to
see after the potion which Mariette was concocting. Her behavior showed
an intense interest for Madeleine, and François, who took the truth of
the matter in a throb, was on the point of addressing her with a
friendly greeting; but--
"But," said the priest's servant, interrupting the hemp-dresser, "you
are using an unsuitable word. A _throb_ does not express a moment, or a
minute."
"I tell you," retorted the hemp-dresser, "that a moment means nothing at
all, and a minute is longer than it takes for an idea to rush into the
head. I do not know how many millions of things you can think of in a
minute, whereas you only need a throb of time to see and hear some one
thing that is happening. I will say a little throb, if you please."
"But a throb of time!" objected the old purist.
"Ah! A throb of time! Does that worry you, Mother Monique? Does not
everything go by throbs? Does not the sun, when you see it rising in the
clouds of flames, and it makes your eyes blink to look at it? And the
blood that beats in your veins; the church clock that sifts your time
particle by particle, as a bolting-machine does the grain; your rosary
when you tell it; your heart when the priest is delayed in coming home;
the rain falling drop by drop, and the earth that turns round, as they
say, like a mill-wheel? Neither you nor I feel the motion, the machine
is too well oiled for that; but there must be some throbbing about it,
since it accomplishes its period in twenty-four hours. As to that, too,
we use the word _period_ when we speak of a certain length of time. So I
say a _throb_, and I shall not unsay it. Do not interrupt me any more,
unless you wish to tell the story."
"No, no; your machine is too well oiled, too," answered the old woman.
"Now let your tongue throb a little longer."
[Illustration]