Jeanne stepped with airy grace among the groups of strollers, and the murmurs which followed her path, though often envious, sounded none the less sweetly in my ears for that.  I hoped to meet Mademoiselle Lorinet.

After we had seen the gardens, we had to visit the Place Seraucourt, the Cours Chanzy, the cathedral, Saint-Pierrele-Guillard, and the house of Jacques-Coeur.  It was six o’clock by the time we got back to the Hotel de France.

A letter was waiting for us in the small and badly furnished entrance—­hall.  It was addressed to Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot.

I recognized at once the ornate hand of M. Mouillard, and grew as white as the envelope.

M. Charnot cried, excitedly: 

“Read it, Jeanne.  Read it, can’t you!”

Jeanne alone of us three kept a brave face.

She read: 

   “My dear child: 

“I treated you perhaps with undue familiarity this morning, at a moment when I was not quite myself.  Nevertheless, now that I have regained my senses, I do not withdraw the expressions of which I made use—­I love you with all my heart; you are a dear girl.

“You will not get an old stager like me to give up his prejudices
against the capital.  Let it suffice that I have surrendered to a
Parisienne.  My niece, I forgive him for your sake.

“Come this evening, all three of you.

“I have several things to tell you, and several questions to ask
you.  My news is not all good.  But I trust that all regrets will be
overwhelmed in the gladness you will bring to my old heart.

“BrutusMouillard.”

When we rang at M. Mouillard’s door, it was opened to us by Baptiste, the office-boy, who waits at table on grand occasions.

My uncle received us in the large drawing-room, in full dress, with his whitest cravat and his most camphorous frock-coat:  “not a moth in ten years,” is Madeleine’s boast concerning this garment.

He saluted us all solemnly, without his usual effusiveness; bearing himself with simple and touching dignity.  Strong emotion, which excites most natures, only served to restrain his.  He said not a word of the past, nor of our marriage.  This, the decisive engagement, opened with polite formalities.

I have often noticed this phenomenon; people meeting to “have it out” usually begin by saying nothing at all.

M. Mouillard offered his arm to Jeanne, to escort her to the dining-room.  Jeanne was in high spirits.  She asked him question after question about Bourges, its dances, fashions, manufactures, even about the procedure of its courts.

“I am sure you know that well, uncle,” she said.

“Uncle” smiled at each question, his face illumined with a glow like that upon a chimney-piece when someone is blowing the fire.  He answered her questions, but presently fell into a state of dejection, which even his desire to do honor to his guests could not entirely conceal.  His thoughts betrayed themselves in the looks he kept casting upon me, no longer of anger, but of suffering, almost pleading, affection.