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Updated: May 22, 2025
I wish Jehan had not given you those silver buckles; I think they have set your little soul on vanities." "It is not the buckles; I am not covetous," said Bébée; and then her face grew warm. She did not know why. and she did not hear the rest of Father Francis's admonitions.
Here Bébée, from three years old, had been used to sit beside him. By nature she was as gay as a lark. The people always heard her singing as they passed the garden.
Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and without much preamble, says to me and mine, 'This is my pal, a'n't he a beauty? fall down and worship him'. 'Hold, said I, 'I for one will never consent to such foolishness." "That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same."
Bébée looked at him with troubled eyes, but with a sweet frank faith that had no hesitation in it. "Yes! you are not like anything I ever knew, and if you will only help me to learn a little. Sometimes I think I am not stupid, only ignorant; but I cannot be sure unless I try."
Leaning against the little lattice and looking down on her with musing eyes, half smiling, half serious, half amorous, half sad, Bébée looked up with a sudden and delicious terror that ran through her as the charm of the snake's gaze runs through the bewildered bird. "Would you cease to wish it if it were not good?" he asked again. Bébée's face grew pale and troubled.
Herne; ‘the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.’ ‘He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; ’twas by that I found him out, as I told you.’ ‘Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer.
But to the mocking of the fruit girl, as to the tenderness of old Jehan, Bébée answered nothing; the lines of her pretty curled mouth grew grave and sad, and in her eyes there was a wistful, bewildered, pathetic appeal like the look in the eyes of a beaten dog, which, while it aches with pain, does not cease to love its master.
"And besides, if I can save a centime, the Varnhart children ought to have it," thought Bébée, as she swept the dust together. It was so selfish of her to be dreaming about a pair of stockings, when those little things often went for days on a stew of nettles.
The garlands that the children strung of daisies and hung about her had never chilled her so. But little Jeanne, the youngest of the charcoal-burner's little tribe, running to meet her, screamed with glee, and danced in the gay morning. "Oh, Bébée! how you glitter! Did the Virgin send you that off her own altar? Let me see let me touch! Is it made of the stars or of the sun?"
Bébée said nothing, but went on her road; since there was no other way but to walk, she would take that way; the distance and the hardship did not appall two little feet that were used to traverse so many miles of sun-baked summer dust and of frozen winter mud unblenchingly year after year. The time it would take made her heart sink indeed. He was ill. God knew what might happen.
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