"And the cause is--?” "The blindness or the wickedness of our authorities." "You speak strongly, Monsieur Deshoulières." "You would do the same, Monseigneur, if your work lay where mine does." There was a little silence: the doctor became aware of the unintentional irony of his words; the Bishop also had recognized it, for he moved his head restlessly upon the cushion. Presently he stretched out his hand to the doctor and said with simple dignity, "I am an old man. I cannot give the personal help this great town requires at my hands. Strength and opportunity are no longer mine, but at least I can pronounce the blessing of God upon those who, like you, are using them for His poor." There was something of grandeur in his face and attitude; M. Deshoulières, much moved, rose up and stood silent. He had never before realized in the Bishop's character the force which lay hidden behind an easy good-nature. At this moment a bell rang. "That is Monsieur Pinot," said the Bishop, relapsing into a smile. "I shall not see him." Monseigneur, all this time we have not spoken of yourself." "I did not send to you for that purpose. I believe your friend is doing me no harm, and it would give him so much satisfaction to cure me that I must let him have the chance for once. But if he fails, I bargain that André Triquet's grandson and I change doctors." "Nevertheless, I shall put a few questions," said M. Deshoulières. When these were over, the Bishop, who liked a little gossip, detained him. 66 Is your strange trusteeship still going on?" "As it was." “And you have received no tidings of the young man? It is peculiar, very peculiar. There was girl, also, left under your charge, was there not?" a Max flushed slightly. The last night's thoughts, which occupation had hunted out of his mind, came back like a torrent. He caught a glimpse of himself in a great velvet-bordered mirror which stood over the chimney-piece, he looked old, grave, unlike a lover for Thérèse. "Mademoiselle Veuillot has found a temporary home, Monseigneur, at the house of Ignace Roulleau, the notary in Rue St. Servan. The conditions of her small legacy require her to remain in Charville." "She might be received at our convent," suggested the Bishop gravely. M. Deshoulières made no answer beyond taking leave. CHAPTER X. "Have I not nursed, for two long wretched years, Grew weaker, like a baby sick to death, AFTER that evening walk from the river Thérèse told Nannon she thought that M. Deshoulières was kinder than she had fancied. Nannon, whose prejudices were invincible, shook her head. "He may be kind when he pleases, I do not deny it, but he is as hard as a stone." "Every one is hard, I think," said Thérèse, sadly. Her bright hopefulness was leaving her; there was so much irritation and fret in her daily life, so much contact with low, mean natures, that it had not power to hold its own. That future to which she looked forward was not one which strengthened her to bear the present; it rather added to the fever of impatience which consumed her. We want something stronger than props of our own rearing when the dark days come with their storms. Poor child, it appeared to herself as if she was for ever stretching out her hands and groping vainly in the darkness for something by which to hold. There was one figure among those which for ages had stood outside the great Cathedral and called to the passers-by, that she had grown almost to identify with herself—a woman who seemed half in supplication, half in fear. It is probable that no one else had seen that expression in the attitude. Those beautiful grave statues at Charville are able to adapt themselves, with something of the power of the Psalms, to the wants and wishes of those who love them. All around are the great flat corn plains; everything is made to speak of crops and gains, getting and selling, buying of farms, proving of oxen. But in the midst there rises, like an eternal protest, this glorious Cathedral, with spires always pointing heavenwards, always typifying what man's life may be amid all the world's care and turmoil. Life in the world, not of it. Thérèse, who did not recognize this, who perhaps had not lived long enough to search for types and shadows in the things about her, was yet conscious of an increasing delight in wandering round |