"But remember," he said, more eagerly than he might have done if it had
not been his rival whom he was defending--"there were quite enough odd
circumstances to make him suspicious. I ought not to have left matters
as I did in Roulleau's hands. You should recollect this. M.
Saint-Martin had actual ground for his suspicions." Therese paused for
a moment before she answered.
"It was afterwards--when he knew they were false."
"It is hard to shake off impressions."
What could he say? His heart was torn in a hundred ways. He longed to
help her--he feared to hurt her. When he looked at her sad face, all
the anger in his nature leaped up against Fabien, and yet the very
strength of his feelings made him fear to be ungenerous. Was it,
indeed, all over between them? "About yourself?" he went on at last.
"Ah, yes, about myself. Your troubles are not at an end, you see," she
said, with a little quivering attempt at playfulness. "Am I to go on
living with Madame Roulleau?"
"I am afraid it will not do for you at all. I do not like your being
there even now."
"But I am not so sure. I have been thinking about it a great deal. At
first I remembered that she used to say I was an expense; but yesterday,
do you recollect, she said that the money they had from me was what they
wanted? If I went away, do you think she would be poorer? or is it too
little to help them?"
"I am sure it helps them," said M. Deshoulieres, hesitating slightly.
"And yet it seems to be very little. How much did my uncle leave me
exactly?"
"A thousand francs a year," he said, still reluctantly.
"And that is all they have had? Ah, no, I perceive. Oh, what have you
been doing!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears.
He turned away from them almost abruptly. "Bah!" he said. "Of course a
_depositaire_ has to see to such little things. That is nothing. You
should rather blame me for the bad choice I made. I will tell you what
strikes me. There is a Madame Aubert here, an excellent woman, whose
husband has but lately died, and whose daughter is delicate and wants a
companion of her own age. I think you might be very happy there,
provided,"--his voice trembled--"provided you desire to remain in
Charville?"
"Where could I go?" she said, with heavy tears dropping from her eyes.
"I wonder whether in all France there is any one so friendless as I am."
It was spoken under her breath, but he caught the forlorn words.
"Therese!" he said passionately. "Therese!--"
She half rose from the seat, turning on him a frightened face. He
stopped her.
"Hear me at least," he said. "I ask nothing--nothing: I would not pain
you, no, not for all the joy which a word of yours might bring. I have
not forgotten what you told me,--if you repeat it now, my Therese, I
swear your love shall be to me as sacred a thing as it has been since I
heard it from your lips. If it is so, I will say only, forgive me, and
trust me once more. But, if things are not as they were--if--if--" His
great frame shook with emotion, he put out his hands, his voice was
choked. Then he recovered himself with a strong effort. "Therese, is
there any hope?"
She was silent. What was this rush of tenderness which swept across her
heart? What was this great contentment which seemed suddenly to calm
all the sadness and the wounds and the self reproach of the past days?
Could it be new, this feeling which seemed to fill her whole being with
a sense of unutterable happiness? Ah, no, more likely all this time it
had been growing in her unawares. More likely, as has been said before,
she had taken his goodness, and his nobility, and his tenderness, and
had set them up in her heart, and called the image Fabien. She had done
it in good faith, all unconsciously, only she had been treasuring a
shadow; and, lo! there came a waft, and the shadow was gone. It may
have been strange that the awakening had not come before; nevertheless
it had not. She had been faithful to Fabien, but it was to Fabien
dressed in M. Deshoulieres' virtues. Sometimes those deceptions are
very terrible. With the real knowledge there comes every now and then a
blank, or, what is worse, the terrible word, "too late." One is
thankful that for this poor little Therese there were better things, and
that circumstances occurred to show her Fabien's character at once
without the veil which might have carried on the deception and made her
burden infinitely harder. She was silent. But over her face there came
a soft, tender flush, her sweet eyes looked shyly up into his.
"Is there any hope?" he said again, bending over her, and speaking in a
low, quick, eager tone.
And then into his outstretched hands she put her own...
Before they went home she told him all that had troubled her. And he,
in his turn, told her something. He showed her the little dull balcony
between the trees, where once he had pictured her sitting waiting, in
the warm glow of light. They went a little nearer, these two, and
looked at it. Nannon, who was getting rather tired of her play with the
sturdy little woman who went solemnly through her pranks, came across,
and asked what they were talking about.
"We are settling a new dress for mademoiselle," said M. Deshoulieres,
his honest blue eyes brimming over with fun. "It must be white and
something shiny."
"White and shiny! That will be a bride's dress," cried Nannon, all her
teeth showing. "So that is it, mademoiselle? I am as happy as a little
cat. There is a little good news come at last; for, what with fevers
and wickednesses, and that angel of a Jean-Marie wanting to go for a
drummer ever since he saw the last review, I can scarcely sleep at
night. And monsieur is going to have a deputation and the thanks of the
town--has he heard?"
They went back slowly through the narrow tangled streets, and past the
Eveche into the Place Notre Dame. There rose the Cathedral, golden with
the glow of the autumnal sun; there stood the serene statues
encompassing it solemnly. Little dappled ranks of clouds rested quietly
on the blue heavens, the jackdaws flew in and out of their carved homes;
two great hawks that lived up there with them swooped lazily along, or
hung poised in midair. After the stifling oppression of the summer,
this cool, sweet autumn came with a sense of delicious relief. These
two had their hearts almost too full for speech, but I do not know that
silence was not as sweet to both. I do not know that we can leave them
better than here, under the shadow of the great Cathedral, in the glow
of the golden sunshine.
The little notary had disappeared, and, except the fact that he had not
been seen at Tours, nothing could be ascertained about him. Whether he
fled from the fever, his wife, or Monsieur Saint-Martin, remained also
an open question for Charville to decide. He never came back again,
that was the only sure point. Therese went to Madame Aubert for a
little while, for Madame Roulleau, when no tidings arrived from her
husband, left Charville--a broken-down woman. M. Deshoulieres best
knows where she is gone. And Fabien is reported to have married a
widow, rich and noble, and to live in superb apartments in Paris.
Charville has not changed very much, after all. Something has been
done, but it remains still almost the same picturesque, shadowy, dirty
old town. Down by the stone fountain the women chatter and gossip as
shrilly as ever, and drown the undertone of the river; the sun shines
softly upon the yellow cornfields, and the tall gabled roofs, and the
Cathedral that crowns them all. One fancies it is a little like a life.
Above broken imperfections, above din and jar and fret, there rises
evermore the something higher towards which our eyes may turn, our weary
feet may press. If it were not so, we should be lingering in the
cornfields and in the streets for ever. But when we once have felt that
other beauty, its desire can never again go out of our souls. And there
are many ways by which we are led upwards.