“Will you give me a kiss, uncle?”

She offered him her rosy cheek.

“With all my heart,” said my uncle as he kissed her; “good girl—­dear girl.”

Then he melted into tears, and hid his face in his pillow.

“And now we must be left alone,” said the doctor.

He came down himself in a moment, and gave us an encouraging account of the patient.

Hardly had the street door closed behind him when we heard the lawyer’s powerful voice thundering down the stairs.

“Charnot!”

The old numismatist flew up the flight of stairs.

“Did you call me, Monsieur?”

“Yes, to invite you to dinner.  I couldn’t say the words just now, but it was in my mind.”

“It is very kind of you, but we leave at nine o’clock.”

“I dine at seven; that’s plenty of time.”

“It will tire you too much.”

“Tire me?  Why, don’t you think I dine everyday?”

“I promise to come and inquire after you before leaving.”

“I can tell you at once that I am all right again.  No, no, it shall never be said that you came all the way from Paris to Bourges only to see me faint.  I count upon you and Mademoiselle Jeanne.”

“On all three of us?”

“That makes three, with me; yes, sir.”

“Excuse me, four.”

“I hope the fourth will have the sense to go and dine elsewhere.”

“Come, come, Monsieur Mouillard; your nephew, your ward—­”

“I ceased to be his guardian four years ago, and his uncle three weeks ago.”

“He longs to put an end to this ill feeling—­”

“Allow me to rest a little,” said M. Mouillard, “in order that I may be in a better condition to receive my guests.”

He lay down again, and showed clearly his intention of saying not another word on the subject.

During the conversation between M. Charnot and my uncle, to which we had listened from the foot of the staircase, Jeanne, who had a moment before been rejoicing over the completeness of the victory which she thought she had achieved, grew quite downhearted.

“I thought he had forgiven you when he kissed me,” she said.  “What can we do now?  Can’t you help us, Madeleine?”

Madeleine, whose heart was beginning to warm to Jeanne, sought vainly for an expedient, and shook her head.

“Ought he to go and see his uncle?” asked Jeanne.

“No,” said Madeleine.

“Well, suppose you write to him, Fabien?”

Madeleine nodded approval, and drew from the depths of her cupboard a little glass inkstand, a rusty penholder, and a sheet of paper, at the top of which was a dove with a twig in its beak.

“My cousin at Romorantin died just before last New Year’s Day,” she explained; “so I had one sheet more than I needed.”

I sat down at the kitchen table with Jeanne leaning over me, reading as I wrote.  Madeleine stood upright and attentive beside the clock, forgetting all about her kitchen fire as she watched us with her black eyes.