Little more than a year later the transformation which the old Valmêt
place had undergone was the talk and wonder of Côte Joyeuse. One would
have looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was
the log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and
the breezes blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned from woods
that the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid
foundation of brick.
Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Léandre smoking his afternoon
cigar, and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be his
_pied à terre_ now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt.
The laughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within
the house where La Petite was playing upon the piano. With the
enthusiasm of a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed
marvelously beautiful to Mam’selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near
her. Mam’selle Pauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valmêt.
Her cheek was as full and almost as flushed as La Petite’s. The years
were falling away from her.
Ma’ame Pélagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends.
Then she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the music
which La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went on
around the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She
stayed there, erect, holding to the banister rail and looking out
calmly in the distance across the fields.
She was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore
folded across her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver
diadem from her brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of
fires that would never flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of
months seemed to have passed over her since the night she bade farewell
to her visions.
Poor Ma’ame Pélagie! How could it be different! While the outward
pressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps into
the light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin.