"Of course! And when you were young--"

"There--no impertinence--"

"Dear uncle, I asked you days ago to talk to my father and mother. Why did you never do it? Then I might have been beforehand with that man--as to him, of course, he is an utter impossibility, and if Cousin Herve sees that, we are safe--but still--"

"Ah! there is a 'but' in the affair, I a.s.sure you. Madame would do anything for a nearer connection with her beloved Empire--and Ratoneau might be Napoleon's twin-brother, but that is a detail--and not only madame, your father is on the same side."

"My father!"

"He thinks there could not be a more sensible marriage. The daughter of the Comte de Sainfoy--a distinguished general of division; diable! what can anybody want more? So my Angelot, I was not a false prophet, it seems to me, when I felt very sure that what you asked me was hopeless.

Your father would have been against you, for the sake of the Sainfoys; your mother, for opposite reasons. There was one chance, Herve himself.

I saw that he was very angry at the Ratoneau proposal; I thought he might s.n.a.t.c.h at an alternative. I still think he might have done so, if you had not behaved like a maniac. It was the moment, Angelot; such moments do not return. I was striking while the iron was hot--you, you only, made my idea useless. You made me look even more mad and foolish than yourself--not that I cared for that. As to danger from her mother, why, after all, her father is the authority."

"Ah, but you are too romantic," sighed Angelot. "He would never have accepted me. He would never really oppose his wife, if her mind was set against him."

"He opposes her now. He plainly said that his daughter should marry a gentleman, therefore not Ratoneau. And where have all your fine presumptuous hopes flown to, my boy? The other day you found yourself good enough for Mademoiselle Helene."

"Perhaps I do still," Angelot said, and laughed. "But I did not then quite understand the Comtesse. I know now that she detests me. Then, too, she had not seen or thought of Ratoneau--Dieu! What profanation!

Was it quite new, the terrible idea? I saw the brute--pah! We were handing the coffee--"

"Yes," said Monsieur Joseph. "As far as I know, the seed was sown, the plant grew and flowered, all in that one evening, my poor Angelot.

Well--I hope all is safe now, but women are very clever, and there is your father, too--he is very clever. If it is not this marriage, it will be another--but you are not interested now; you have put yourself out of the question."

"Don't say that, Uncle Joseph--and don't imagine that your troubles are over. You will have to do a good deal more for me yet, and for Helene."

He spoke slowly and dreamily, then added with a gesture of despair--"But my father--how could he! Why, the very sight of the man--"

"Ah! Very poetical, your dear father, but not very sentimental. I told him so. He said the best poetry was the highest good sense. I do not quite understand him, I confess. Allons! I am afraid I do. He is a philosopher. He also--well, well!"

"He also--what?"

"Nothing," said Monsieur Joseph, shortly. "What is to be done then, to help you?"

"I am afraid--for her sake--I must not go quite so much to Lancilly. Not for a few days, at least, till last night is forgotten. I cannot meet her before all those people, with their eyes upon me. I believe Madame de Sainfoy saw that I was lying, that I would give my life for what I seemed to refuse."

"Do you think so? No, no, she laughed and teased and questioned me with the others."

"Nevertheless, I think so. But I must know that Helene is well and safe and not tormented. Uncle Joseph, if you could go there a little oftener--you might see her sometimes--"

"How often?"

"Every two days, for instance?"

Monsieur Joseph smiled sweetly.

"No, mon pet.i.t. What should take me to Lancilly every two days? I have not much to say to Herve; his ideas are not mine, either on sport or on politics. And as to Madame Adelade--no--we do not love each other. She is impatient of me--I distrust her. She has Urbain, and one in the family is enough, I think. Voyons! Would your Mademoiselle Moineau do any harm to Riette?"

"Ah! But no! I believe she is a most excellent woman."

"Only a little sleepy--hein? Well, I will change my mind about that offer I refused. I will send Riette every day to learn needlework and Italian with her cousins. She will teach more than she learns, by the bye! Yes, our little _guetteuse_ shall watch for you, Angelot. But on one condition--that she knows no more than she does already. You can ask her what questions you please, of course--but no letters or messages, mind; I trust to your honour. I will not have the child made a go-between in my cousin's house, or mixed up with matters too old for her. She knows enough already to do what you want, to tell you that Mademoiselle Helene is safe and well. I will have nothing more, you understand. But I think you will be wise to keep away, and this plan may make absence bearable."

He turned his anxious, smiling face to Angelot. And thus the entire reconciliation was brought about; the two understood and loved each other better than ever before, and Riette, as she had herself suggested, was to take her part in helping Angelot.

Neither Monsieur Urbain, in his great discretion, nor his wife, in her extreme dislike of Lancilly and all connected with it, chose to say a word either to Angelot or his uncle about the strange little scene that had closed the dinner-party. It was better forgotten, they thought. And Angelot was too proud, too conscious of their opinion, to speak of it himself.

So the three talked that night about Sonnay-le-Loir and the markets there, and about the neighbours that Urbain had met, and about certain defects in one of his horses, and then about the coming vintage and its prospects.

Urbain fetched down a precious book, considerably out of date now, the _Theatre d'Agriculture_ of Olivier de Serres, Seigneur du Pradel, and began studying, as he did every year, the practical advice of that excellent writer on the management of vineyards. The experience of Angelot, gained chiefly in wandering round the fields with old Joubard, differed on some points from that of Monsieur de Serres. He argued with his father, not at all in the fashion of a young man hopelessly in love; but indeed, though Helene was the centre of all his thoughts, he was far from hopeless.

There was a bright spring of life in Angelot, a faith in the future, which kept him above the most depressing circ.u.mstances. The waves might seem overwhelming, the storm too furious; Angelot would ride on the waves with an unreasoning certainty that they would finally toss him on the sh.o.r.e of Paradise. Had not Helene kissed him? Could he not still feel the sweet touch of her lips, the velvet softness of that pale cheek? Could his eyes lose the new dream in their sleepy dark depths, the dream of waking smiles and light in hers, of bringing colour and joy into that grey, mysterious world of sadness! No; whatever the future might hold--and he did not fear it--Angelot could say to his fate:--

"To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day."

There was such a glory of happiness behind the present clouds that the boy had never seemed to his mother more light-hearted. She listened to his talk with his father, the smiling dispute as to what age of the moon was the most lucky for beginning the vintage. Monsieur de Serres, with a kindly word of indulgence for those who thought much of the moon, contented himself with recommending fine weather and a convenient day.

Joubard, and Angelot with him, held to the old country superst.i.tion of the waning moon.

This would throw the vintage later than Monsieur Urbain wished, and he pointed out that De Serres was a sensible man and a philosopher. Silly fancies, lunatical, astrological, were not much in his line.

"He is also a Calvinist," said Madame de la Mariniere. "He has no religion--no real religion. He believes in nothing but what he can see.

Take my advice, leave Olivier on the shelf, and stick to the old ways of the country."

"Ah, bah! and do you know why my farming has always succeeded?" said her husband, laughing. "Because I have been guided by the wisdom of De Serres. He is a rare man. He has as little superst.i.tion as Montaigne himself."

"And is as worthy of a bonfire!" said Anne, but she smiled.

She was sitting at her tapestry frame, beside her two wax candles, and while her needle went industriously in and out, her eyes were constantly lifted to where those two sat talking. Urbain turned over the leaves of his fat, red-edged quarto, lingering lovingly on favourite pages. Angelot laughed and chattered, leaning easily on the table. The adventure of last night seemed to have left no impression upon him.

"How foolish that dear Joseph was!" his mother thought. "But oh, what a contrast to that odious dinner-party! Now, this is peace, this is what I have prayed for, to have them both happy at home, and free of Lancilly."

But when she kissed her boy that night, looking eagerly into his face, something cold touched her heart. For his look was far away, and the smile in his eyes was not for her at all.

"Urbain," she said, "are you sure that all is right with Ange?"

"All, my beloved, except a little superst.i.tion about the moon, of which life will cure him," her husband answered with his queer smile.

"The moon! Yes, he talked last night about the moon," she said. "That is what I mean, Urbain, not your moon for the vintage."

"Oh! la belle Helene!" he said lightly. "Don't derange yourself. I did not tell you--I found her mother this morning in a resolute state of mind. She does not intend to have the young lady on her hands long. If not one marriage, it will be another, you will see. Herve will find he must leave the matter to his wife. Ange! bah! children's fancies are not worth a thought. If you lived more in the world, you would be happier, my poor Anne."

"I don't think so," Anne said as she turned away.

The next morning Monsieur Urbain stayed indoors till breakfast time.

This was often enough a habit of his, but he was generally buried in his books and did not care to be disturbed. To-day he wandered about the house, took a turn into the porch, observed the clouds, looked at his watch, and behaved generally with a restlessness that Anne would have found unaccountable; but she was out with a sick woman in the village.

She came in soon after ten, followed by Angelot from his shooting.

They sat down to breakfast, that warm day, with doors and windows open.

The old, low room with its brick-paved floor was shady and pleasant, opening on the stone court where the porch was; the polished table was loaded with fruit. Angelot's dog lay stretched in a patch of sunshine; he was ordered out several times, but always came back. When the heat became too much he rose panting, and flung his long body into the shade; then the chilly bricks drove him back into the sun again.

The three were rather silent. Urbain, who always led their talk, was a little preoccupied that morning. After finishing his second large slice of melon, he looked up at Angelot and said, "After breakfast I will go with you to La Joubardiere. We must settle with Joubard about the vintage; it is time things were fixed. I say the first of October. As to his moons, I cannot listen to such absurdities. He must arrange what suits me and the weather and the vines. First of all, me."