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Updated: May 27, 2025
This whisper was helped into circulation by many trivial eccentricities of manner, and by the unaccountable oddness of some of his transactions in business. "My dear sir!" cried his astounded lawyer, one day, "you are not running a charitable institution!" "How do you know?" said Monsieur Vignevielle. There the conversation ceased.
"I nevva know dad, Madame Carraze. She's a lill' small gal?" Mothers forget their daughters' stature. Madame Delphine said: "Yez." For a few moments neither spoke, and then Monsieur Vignevielle said: "I will do dad." "Lag she been you' h-own?" asked the mother, suffering from her own boldness. "She's a good lill' chile, eh?"
"I nevva know dad, Madame Carraze. She's a lill small gal?" Mothers forget their daughters' stature. Madame Delphine said: "Yez." For a few moments neither spoke, and then Monsieur Vignevielle said: "I will do dad." "Lag she been you' h-own?" asked the mother, suffering from her own boldness. "She's a good lill' chile, eh?"
"We are acquainted," said Monsieur Vignevielle. A quiet footstep, a grave new presence on financial sidewalks, a neat garb slightly out of date, a gently strong and kindly pensive face, a silent bow, a new sign in the Rue Toulouse, a lone figure with a cane, walking in meditation in the evening light under the willows of Canal Marigny, a long-darkened window re-lighted in the Rue Conti these were all; a fall of dew would scarce have been more quiet than was the return of Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle to the precincts of his birth and early life.
At the gate they paused an instant, and then parted with a simple adieu, she going home and he returning for his hat, and starting again upon his interrupted business. Before he came back to his own house, he stopped at the lodgings of Monsieur Vignevielle, but did not find him in. "Indeed," the servant at the door said, "he said he might not return for some days or weeks."
"Madame Carraze." She started wildly and almost screamed, though the voice was soft and mild. Monsieur Vignevielle came slowly forward from the shade of the wall. They met beside a bench, upon which she dropped her basket. "Ah, Miché Vignevielle, I thang de good God to mid you!" "Is dad so, Madame Carraze? Fo' w'y dad is?" "A man was chase me all dad way since my 'ouse!"
But we hardly give the event its right name. It was Capitaine Lemaìtre who had disappeared; it was Monsieur Vignevielle who had come back. The pleasures, the haunts, the companions, that had once held out their charms to the impetuous youth, offered no enticements to Madame Delphine's banker.
One beautiful summer night, when all nature seemed hushed in ecstasy, the last blush gone that told of the sun's parting, Monsieur Vignevielle, in the course of one of those contemplative, uncompanioned walks which it was his habit to take, came slowly along the more open portion of the Rue Royale, with a step which was soft without intention, occasionally touching the end of his stout cane gently to the ground and looking upward among his old acquaintances, the stars.
"Why do you not found hospitals and asylums at once," asked the attorney, at another time, with a vexed laugh, "and get the credit of it?" "And make the end worse than the beginning, said the banker, with a gentle smile, turning away to a desk of books. "Bah!" muttered Jean Thompson. Monsieur Vignevielle betrayed one very bad symptom. Wherever he went he seemed looking for somebody.
The mother thought it a strange providence that Monsieur Vignevielle should always be disappearing whenever Olive was with her.
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