The next day Tardif bade me farewell, and Monsieur Laurentie drove him to Granville on his way home to Sark.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

FAREWELL TO VILLE-EN-BOIS.

The unbroken monotony of Ville-en-bois closed over me again.  The tolling of the morning bell; the hum of matins; the frugal breakfast in the sunlit salon; the long, hot day; vespers again; then an hour’s chat by twilight with the drowsy cure and his sister, whose words were so rare.  Before six such days had passed, I felt as if they were to last my lifetime.  Then the fretting of my uneasy woman’s heart began.  There was no sign that I had any friends in England.  What ought I to do?  How must I set about the intricate business of my affairs?  Must I write to my trustees in Melbourne, giving them the information of my husband’s death, and wait till I could receive from them instructions, and credentials to prove my identity, without which it was useless, if it were practicable, to return to London?  Was there ever any one as friendless as I was?  Monsieur Laurentie could give me no counsel, except to keep myself tranquil; but how difficult it was to keep tranquil amid such profound repose!  I had often found it easier to be calm amid many provocations and numerous difficulties.

A week has glided by; a full week.  The letter-carrier has brought me no letter.  I am seated at the window of the salon, gasping in these simmering dog-days for a breath of fresh air; such a cool, balmy breeze as blows over the summer sea to the cliffs of Sark.  Monsieur Laurentie, under the shelter of a huge red umbrella, is choosing the ripest cluster of grapes for our supper this evening.  All the street is as still as at midnight.  Suddenly there breaks upon us the harsh, metallic clang of well-shod horse-hoofs upon the stony roadway—­the cracking of a postilion’s whip—­the clatter of an approaching carriage.

It proves to be a carriage with a pair of horses.

Pierre, who has been basking idly under the window, jumps to his feet, shouting, “It is Monsieur the Bishop!” Minima claps her hands, and cries, “The prince, Aunt Nelly, the prince!”

Monsieur Laurentie walks slowly down to the gate, his cotton umbrella spread over him, like a giant fungus.  It is certainly not the prince; for an elderly, white-haired man, older than Monsieur Laurentie, but with a more imposing and stately presence, steps out of the carriage, and they salute one another with great ceremony.  If that be Monsieur the Bishop, he has very much the air of an Englishman.

In a few minutes my doubt as to the bishop’s nationality was solved.  The two white-headed men, the one in a glossy and handsome suit of black, the other in his brown and worn-out cassock, came up the path together, under the red umbrella.  They entered the house, and came directly to the salon.  I was making my escape by another door, not being sure how I ought to encounter a bishop, when Monsieur Laurentie called to me.