The Pomp of the Lavilettes | Page 9

with its honourable
inscription, every morning of his life.
On the morning of the second day after Ferrol came, he was carried off
to the Manor Casimbault to see the painful alterations which were
being made there under the direction of Madame Lavilette. Sophie,
who had a good deal of natural taste, had in the old days fought against
her mother's incongruous ideas, and once, when the rehabilitation of the
Manor Casimbault came up, she had made a protest; but it was
unavailing, and it was her last effort. The Manor Casimbault was
destined to be an example of ancient dignity and modern bad taste.
Alterations were going on as Madame Lavilette, Ferrol and Christine
entered.
For some time Ferrol watched the proceedings with a casual eye, but
presently he begged his hostess that she would leave the tall, old oak
clock where it was in the big hall, and that the new, platter-faced office
clock, intended for its substitute, be hung up in the kitchen. He eyed the
well-scraped over-mantel askance and saw, with scarcely concealed
astonishment, a fine, old, carved wooden seat carried out of doors to
make room for an American rocking-chair. He turned his head away
almost in anger when he saw that the beautiful brown wainscoting was
being painted an ultra-marine blue. His partly disguised astonishment
and dissent were not lost upon the crude but clever Christine. A new
sense was opened up in her, and she felt somehow that the ultra-marine
blue was not right, that the over-mantel had been spoiled, that the new
walnut table was too noticeable, and that the American rocking-chair
looked very common. Also she felt that the plush, with which her
mother and the dressmaker at St. Croix had decorated her bodice, was
not the thing. Presently this made her angry.
"Won't you sit down?" she asked a little maliciously, pointing to the
rocking-chair in the salon.
"I prefer standing--with you," he answered, eyeing the chair with a sly
twinkle.

"No, that isn't it," she rejoined sharply. "You don't like the chair." Then
suddenly breaking into English--"Ah! I know, I know. You can't fool
me. I see de leetla look in your eye; and you not like the paint, and
you'd pitch that painter, Alcide, out into the snow if it is your house."
"I wouldn't, really," he answered--he coughed a little--"Alcide is doing
his work very well. Couldn't you give me a coat of blue paint, too?"
The piquant, intelligent, fiery peasant face interested him. It had
warmth, natural life and passion.
She flushed and stamped her foot, while he laughed heartily; and she
was about to say something dangerous, when the laugh suddenly
stopped and he began coughing. The paroxysm increased until he
strained and caught at his breast with his hand. It seemed as if his chest
and throat must burst.
She instantly changed. The flush of anger passed from her face, and
something else came into it. She caught his hand.
"Oh! what can I do, what can I do to help you?" she asked pitifully. "I
did not know you were so ill. Tell me, what can I do?"
He made a gentle, protesting motion of his free arm--he could not speak
yet--while she held and clasped his other hand.
"It's the worst I ever had," he said, after a moment "the very worst!"
He sat down, and again he had a fit of coughing, and the sweat started
out violently upon his forehead and cheek. When his head at last lay
back against the chair, the paroxysm over, a little spot of blood showed
and spread upon his white lips. With a pained, shuddering little gasp
she caught her handkerchief from her bosom, and, running one hand
round his shoulder, quickly and gently caught away the spot of blood,
and crumpled the handkerchief in her hand to hide it from him.
"Oh! poor fellow, poor fellow!" she said. "Oh! poor fellow!"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked at him with that look which is
not the love of a woman for a man, or of a lover for a lover, but that
latent spirit of care and motherhood which is in every woman who is
more woman than man. For there are women who are more men than
women.
For himself, a new fact struck home in him. For the first time since his
illness he felt that he was doomed. That little spot of blood in the
crumpled handkerchief which had flashed past his eye was the fatal
message he had sought to elude for months past. A hopeless and
ironical misery shot through him. But he had humour too, and, with the
taste of the warm red drop in his mouth still, his tongue touched his lips
swiftly, and one hand