The Pomp of the Lavilettes | Page 7

which, on his cheek, was almost beautiful. One would have
turned twice to see. The quantities of spirits that he drank (he ate little)
would have killed a half-dozen healthy men. To him it was food, taken
up, absorbed by the fever of his disease, giving him a real, not a
fictitious strength; and so it would continue to do till some artery burst
and choked him, or else, by some miracle of air and climate, the hole in
his lung healed up again; which he, in his elation, believed would be
"to-morrow." Perhaps the air, the food, and life of Bonaventure were
the one medicine he needed!
But, in the moment Nicolas said to him that Bonaventure was just over
the hill, that they would be able to see it now, he had a sudden feeling

of depression. He felt that he would give anything to turn back. A
perspiration broke out on his forehead and his cheek. His eyes had a
wavering, anxious look. Some of that old sanity of the once healthy
man was making a last effort for supremacy, breaking in upon illusive
hopes and irresponsible deceptions.
It was only for a moment. Presently, from the top of the hill, they
looked down upon the long line of little homes lying along the banks of
the river like peaceful watchmen in a pleasant land, with corn and wine
and oil at hand. The tall cross on the spire of the Parish Church was
itself a message of hope. He did not define it so; but the impression
vaguely, perhaps superstitiously, possessed him. It was this vague
influence, perhaps (for he was not a Catholic), which made him
involuntarily lift his hat, as did Nicolas, when they passed a calvary;
which induced him likewise to make the sacred gesture when they met
a priest, with an acolyte and swinging censer, hurrying silently on to
the home of some dying parishioner. The sensations were different
from anything he had known. He had been used to the Catholic religion
in Ireland; he had seen it in France, Spain, Italy and elsewhere; but here
was something essentially primitive, archaically touching and
convincing.
His spirits came back with a rush; he had a splendid feeling of
exaltation. He was not religious, never could be, but he felt religious;
he was ill, but he felt that he was on the open highway to health; he was
dishonest, but he felt an honest man; he was the son of a peer, but he
felt himself brother to the fat miller by the roadway, to Baby, the
postmaster and keeper of the bridge, to the Regimental Surgeon, who
stood in his doorway, pulling at his moustache and blowing clouds of
tobacco smoke into the air.
Shangois, the notary, met his eye as they dashed on. A new sensation--
not a change in the elation he felt, but an instant's interruption-- came to
him. He asked who Shangois was, and Nicolas told him.
"A notary, eh?" he remarked gaily. "Well, why does he disguise
himself? He looks like a ragpicker, and has the eye of Solomon and the
devil in one. He ought to be in some Star Chamber--Palmerston could

make use of him."
"Oh, he's kept busy enough with secrets here!" was Nicolas's laughing
reply.
"It's only a difference of size in the secrets anyhow," was Ferrol's
response in the same vein; and in a few moments they had passed the
Seigneury, and were drawn up before the great farmhouse.
Its appearance was rather comfortable and commodious than
impressive, but it had the air of home and undepreciating use. There
was one beautiful clump of hollyhocks and sunflowers in the front
garden; a corner of the main building was covered with
morning-glories; a fence to the left was overgrown with grape-vines,
making it look like a hedge; a huge pear tree occupied a spot opposite
to the pretty copse of sunflowers and hollyhocks; and the rest of the
garden was green, save just round a little "summer-house," in the
corner, with its back to the road, near which Sophie had set a palisade
of the golden-rod flower. Just beside the front door was a bush of
purple lilac; and over the door, in copper, was the coat-of-arms of the
Lavilettes, placed there, at Madame's insistence, in spite of the dying
wish of Lavilette's father, a feeble, babbling old gentleman in
knee-breeches, stock, and swallow-tailed coat, who, broken down by
misfortune, age and loneliness, had gathered himself together for one
last effort for becomingness against his daughter-in- law's false
tastes--and had died the day after. He was spared the indignity of the
coat-of-arms on the tombstone only by the fierce opposition of Louis
Lavilette, who upon this point had his first quarrel with his wife.
Ferrol saw