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You will be telling me that he couldn't lose what he hadn't got Sylvie, just take him up to his room!" Sylvie took him by the arm, supported him upstairs, and flung him just as he was, like a package, across the bed. "Poor young fellow!" said Mme. Couture, putting back Eugene's hair that had fallen over his eyes; "he is like a young girl, he does not know what dissipation is."
"I am still at a loss to follow you, Contessa," he said coldly. "Surely you do not mean to imply that your marriage will sever you from the Church of your fathers?" "Monsignor, marriage for me means an oath before God to take my husband for better or for worse, and to be true to him under all trial and circumstances," said Sylvie. "And I assuredly mean to keep that oath!
Sylvie knew the way down through the glen, from fall to fall, half a mile apart. She and Bob Jeffords had come down to them, time and again; after nearly every little summer shower; for with all the heat, the night rains had been plentiful and frequent, and the water-courses had been kept full.
This was one of Hugh's madnesses; he would take Sylvie up a mountain and show her his kingdom, show her himself as lord of the wilderness. He had been there before many times, to the top of their one mountain, always under protest from Bella and Pete.
He laughed out at that, stood up, drawing her to stand beside him. "Bella Pete," he called, "do you hear you two?" He beckoned them close, laid a hand on them, drew first one, then the other toward Sylvie. "She loves me. She sees me as I am!" Suddenly he put his grizzled head on Sylvie's shoulder and wept.
Pierrette's silence was thus interpreted to her injury. "Pierrette," continued Sylvie, "before your cousin comes down we must have some talk together. Come," she said, in a rather softer tone, "shut the street door; if any one comes they will rung and we shall hear them."
"Aubrey could not change. It is not in him. He is not like our poor friend Fontenelle." "Ah! That love of yours was only fancy, Sylvie!" "We all have our fancies!" answered the pretty Comtesse, looking very earnestly into Angela's eyes. "We are not always sure that what we first call love is love. But I had much more than a fancy for the Marquis Fontenelle.
And I made another great effort to say something that should have some meaning in it. "Is it about the potato?" "I don't know," said Sylvie. "Hush! I must think. I could go to him, by myself, well enough. But I want you to come too." "Let me go with you," I pleaded. "I can walk as fast as you can, I'm sure." Sylvie laughed merrily. "What nonsense!" she cried. "Why, you ca'n't walk a bit!
But an old maid, one in whom the family instincts have never been awakened, to whom the needs of childhood and the precautions required for adolescence were unknown, had neither the indulgence nor the compassionate intelligence of a mother; such sufferings as those of Pierrette, instead of softening her heart only made it more callous. "She blushes, she is guilty!" thought Sylvie.
And this fresh nature is peopled by girls eternally young, natural, gay, or pensive, standing with eager feet on the threshold of their life, innocent, expectant, with the old ballads of old France on their lips. For the story is full of those artless, lisping numbers of the popular French Muse, the ancient ballads that Gerard collected and put in the mouth of Sylvie, the pretty peasant girl.
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