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Of late Jo had come in and gone out of the shop oftener than in the past, had even brought her bunches of mosses for her flower-pots, the first budding lilacs, and some maple-sugar made from the trees on Vadrome Mountain.
She had blushed when monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him in her heart how could there be for a man she had but just seen! but because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high temperature; because the man compelled attention.
"What's his name, darlin'?" "The letter I took him was addressed, 'To the Sick Man at Jo Portugais' House at Vadrome Mountain." "Ah, thin, the Cure knows. 'Tis some rich man come to get well, and plays at bein' tailor. But why didn't the letther come to his name, I wander now? That's what I wander." Rosalie shook her head, and looked reflectively through the window towards the tailor-shop.
As he sat beside Narcisse Dauphin's bedside, one evening, the sick man on his way to recovery, there came to him the text of a sermon he had once heard John Brown preach: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend." He had been thinking of Rosalie and that day at Vadrome Mountain.
When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, "God be gracious to thee, my son," Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill. This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain. Jo had an inspiration.
You are friendly with him, are you not? you talk with him now and then?" She inclined her head. "Very well, Monsieur. I will go to Vadrome Mountain to-morrow," she said quietly. Anger, apprehension, indignation, possessed her, but she held herself firmly. The Seigneur was doing a friendly thing; and, in any case, she could have no quarrel with him.
She imagined M'sieu' to be at Vadrome Mountain, until, glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor's wagon, she saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelling tinker of human bodies. Evidently M'sieu' was not at Vadrome Mountain. He was not far from her.
When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, "God be gracious to thee, my son," Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill. This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain. Jo had an inspiration.
She resented she was a woman and loved monopoly all inquiry regarding M'sieu', so frequently addressed to her. One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur cap, and crossed the street to her. "Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?" "Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard."
"Whither now?" he said, like one in a dream. Up to the moment of her meeting with Charley, Rosalie Evanturel's life had been governed by habit, which was lightly coloured by temperament. Since the eventful hour on Vadrome Mountain it had become a life of temperament, in which habit was involuntary and mechanical.
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