delay, make, me so terribly uneasy?  Do you remember, my father,” he resumed, after a pause, turning to the cure, “do you remember how lovely Marie looked on our wedding-day?  Do you remember her dazzling complexion and the innocent candour of her expression?—­the sure token of the most truthful and purest of minds!  That is why I love her so much now; we do not now sigh for one another, but the second love is stronger than the first, for it is founded on recollection, and is tranquil and confident in friendship . . . .  It is strange that they have not returned; something must have happened!  If they do not return this evening, and I do not now think it possible, I shall go to Paris myself to-morrow.”

“I think;” said the other priest, “that at twenty you must indeed have been excitable, a veritable tinder-box, to have retained so much energy!  Come, monsieur, try to calm yourself and have patience:  you yourself admit it can only be a few hours’ delay.”

“But my son accompanied his mother, and he is our only one, and so delicate!  He alone remains of our three children, and you do not realise how the affection of parents who feel age approaching is concentrated on an only child!  If I lost Edouard I should die!”

“I suppose, then, as you let him go, his presence at Paris was necessary?”

“No; his mother went to obtain a loan which is needed for the improvements required on the estate.”

“Why, then, did you let him go?”

“I would willingly have kept him here, but his mother wished to take him.  A separation is as trying to her as to me, and we all but quarrelled over it.  I gave way.”

“There was one way of satisfying all three—­you might have gone also.”

“Yes, but Monsieur le cure will tell you that a fortnight ago I was chained to my arm-chair, swearing under my breath like a pagan, and cursing the follies of my youth!—­Forgive me, my father; I mean that I had the gout, and I forgot that I am not the only sufferer, and that it racks the old age of the philosopher quite as much as that of the courtier.”

The fresh wind which often rises just at sunset was already rustling in the leaves; long shadows darkened the course of the Yonne and stretched across the plain; the water, slightly troubled, reflected a confused outline of its banks and the clouded blue of the sky.  The three gentlemen stopped at the end of the terrace and gazed into the already fading distance.  A black spot, which they had just observed in the middle of the river, caught a gleam of light in passing a low meadow between two hills, and for a moment took shape as a barge, then was lost again, and could not be distinguished from the water.  Another moment, and it reappeared more distinctly; it was indeed a barge, and now the horse could be seen towing it against the current.  Again it was lost at a bend of the river shaded by willows, and they had to resign themselves to incertitude for several minutes.  Then a white handkerchief was waved on the prow of the boat, and Monsieur de Lamotte uttered a joyful exclamation.