Part 35 (1/2)
Instead of putting his violin into its case, M. Sylvestre stood watching her as she lifted her arms, and drew her pretty figure up with a graceful swaying movement.
”Be quick!” she said, ”we are going to take you back to Pont-sur-Loire, or rather M. de Clagny, one of our friends, is going to take you on his coach.” Denyse saw that he did not understand, so she went on to explain: ”It's a large carriage, and holds a good number of people.”
”Are you going, too?” he asked excitedly.
”I am going, too--yes, Monsieur Sylvestre.”
He was just taking from his violin-case a little bunch of forget-me-nots and wild roses, which were already drooping their poor little heads. He held them out timidly to Bijou.
”As I came along, mademoiselle, I--I took the liberty of gathering these flowers for you.”
She took them, and after inhaling their perfume for a minute or two, put them into her waistband.
”Thank you so much for having thought of me,” she said.
He followed Bijou downstairs, step by step, happy in the present, forgetting all about his poverty, and as he appeared, tripping along behind the young girl, his violin-case in his hand, M. de Clagny turned to Jean de Blaye, and remarked:
”You were right; he has a nice face.”
The mail-coach had just appeared in front of the steps when the marchioness called out:
”Bijou! I have a commission for you. Go to Pellerin the bookseller, and ask him--stop--no--send Pierrot here.”
”Pierrot,” said Denyse, returning to the hall, ”grandmamma wants you.”
”I'll bet it's some errand to do,” remarked the youth, making a grimace, ”and errands are not much in my line.” And then, whilst Bijou and the others were clambering up on to the coach, he went back to Madame de Bracieux. ”You wanted me, aunt?” he said.
”Yes. Will you go to Pellerin's? do you know which is Pellerin's?”
”The book shop.”
”Yes. Ask him for a novel of Dumas' for me. It is called 'Le Batard de Mauleon.' What are you looking at me for in that bewildered way?”
”Because I have never seen you reading novels, and--”
”You will not see me reading this one either; it is for the cure, I have promised it him. He adores Dumas, and he does not know 'Le Batard de Mauleon.' You will remember the t.i.tle?”
”Yes, aunt.”
”You are sure? You would not like me to write it for you?”
”'Tisn't worth while.”
”You will forget it!”
”No danger.”
He rushed off, looking down on the ground, and then, as he climbed on to the coach, he trod on the feet of various people, nearly smashed M.