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As Bontet the inn-keeper set the wine on the table before the Duke of Saint-Maclou, the big clock in the hall of the inn struck noon. It is strange to me, even now when the story has grown old in my memory, to recall all that happened before the hands of that clock pointed again to twelve.
Strangers will be repaid for their trouble in going to see these fountains. The first, is situated at the corner of the church of Saint-Maclou; there remain still two figures of children, an elegant creation of Jean Goujon. We mention the second, the fountain of the Pucelle, on the place of the same name, on account of the historical recollections, which are attached to it.
Lafleur held the lantern; Pierre's hand was near the lock, and I presumed I could not see that he held some instrument with which he meant to open it. A ring of trees framed the picture, and the men sat in a hollow, well hidden from the path even had it been high day. The Duke of Saint-Maclou touched my arm, and I leaned forward to look in his face.
This privilege was shown by two vases, supported on two iron bars on each side of the cross, which surmounted the great porch. In the general processions, the cross of Saint-Maclou took precedence of all others, and led the procession. The church is one hundred and forty two feet in length, by seventy six feet in breadth, taking in the aisles.
Aycon! How in the world do you come here?" To feel surprise at the Duchess of Saint-Maclou doing anything which she might please to do or being anywhere that the laws of Nature rendered it possible she should be, was perhaps a disposition of mind of which I should have been by this time cured; yet I was surprised to find her standing in the doorway that led from Jean's little bedroom dressed in a neat walking gown and a very smart hat, her hands clasped in the surprise which she shared with me and her eyes gleaming with an amused delight which found, I fear, no answer in my heavy bewildered gaze.
"I have the honor," said I, "to enjoy the friendship of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou." "And that forbids you to enjoy mine?" I bowed assent to her inference. She sat still at the table, her chin on her hands. I was about to leave her, when it struck me all in a moment that leaving her was not exactly the best thing to do, although it might be much the easiest. I arrested my steps.
Conscious that she was scanning my appearance, I could but return the compliment. She was very tall, almost as tall as I was myself; you would choose to call her stately, rather than slender. She was very fair, with large lazy blue eyes and a lazy smile to match. In all respects she was the greatest contrast to the Duchess of Saint-Maclou. "You were about to pass out?" said I, holding the door.
He is to-day living in the village of Saint-Maclou, among those charming valleys which run down to the Oise. Who does not know his modest little pink-washed house, with its green shutters and its garden filled with bright flowers?
"Well, if I did?" "Someone returning," said I stepping up to the table opposite her. "What then?" she asked, but wearily and not in the defiant manner of the morning. "Mme. Delhasse perhaps, or perhaps the Duke of Saint-Maclou?" Marie Delhasse made no answer.
"What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?" she asked. "I mean her no harm," I urged eagerly. "If she is safe here, I ask to know no more; I don't even ask to see her. Is she here? The Duchess of Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away." "God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here," she said solemnly. "You have seen the duchess?"
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