Short Stories, - [books to read fiction .txt] 📗

Hubert Boinville continued to give, as is said in official language, “active and brilliant impulse to the Department.” The ministerial machine went on heaping up on his desk the daily grist of reports and papers, and the sittings of the Council, audiences, commissions and other official duties kept him so busy that he could not find a spare hour in which to go to the humble lodgings near the Capuchin convent. In the midst of his work, however, his thoughts often wandered back to the humble little dinner, and several times his attention was distracted from an official document by a vision of Claudette’s bright azure eyes, which seemed to flutter about on the paper like a pair of blue butterflies. When he returned to his gloomy bachelor apartment, those eyes went before him, and seemed to laugh merrily as he stirred his dull fire, and then he thought again of the dinner in the cheerful room, of the fire blazing up gaily in the delft stove, and of the young girl’s merry prattle, which had temporarily resuscitated the sensation of his twenty-first year. More than once he went to his mirror and looked gloomily at his gray-streaked beard, thought of his loveless youth, and of his increasing years, and said with La Fontaine:

“Have I passed the time for loving?”

Then he would be seized with a sort of tender homesickness which filled him with dismay, and made him regret that he had never married.

One cloudy afternoon toward the end of December, the solemn usher opened the door and announced:

“Madame Blouet, sir.”

Boinville rose eagerly to greet his visitor, and inquired, with a slight blush, for her granddaughter.

“She is very well, sir,” was the answer, “and your visit brought her luck; she received an appointment yesterday in a telegraph office. I could not think of leaving Paris without again thanking you, sir, for your kindness to us.”

Boinville’s heart sank.

“You are to leave Paris; is this position in the provinces?”

“Yes, in the Vosges. Of course I shall go with Claudette; I am eighty years old, and cannot have much longer to live; we shall never part, in this world.”

“Do you go soon?”

“In January. Good-bye, sir; you have been very kind to us, and Claudette begged me to thank you in her name.”

The deputy governor was thunderstruck, and answered only in monosyllables, and when the good woman had left him he sat motionless for a long time with his head in his hands.

That night he slept badly, and the next day was very taciturn with his employes.

Toward three o’clock he brushed his hat, left the office, and jumped into a cab that was passing, and half an hour later he hurried through the market garden of Number 12, Rue de la Santé, and knocked tremblingly at Madame Blouet’s door. Claudette answered the knock, and on seeing the deputy governor, she started and blushed.

“Grandmother is out,” she said, “but she will soon be home and will be so glad to see you.”

“I have come to see, not your grandmother, but yourself, Mademoiselle Claudette,” he returned.

“Me?” she exclaimed anxiously, and he repeated, “Yes, you,” in an abrupt tone, and then his throat seemed to close and he could hardly speak.

“You are going away next month?” he asked at last.

The girl nodded assent.

“Are you not sorry to leave Paris?”

“Yes indeed I am. It grieves me to think of it, but then, this position is a fortune to us, and grandmother will be able to live in peace for the rest of her days.”

“Suppose I should offer you the means of remaining in Paris, at the same time assuring comfort to Madame Blouet?”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the young girl, her face brightening.

“It is rather a violent remedy,” he said, hesitating again, “perhaps you would think it too great an effort.”

“Oh no, I am very resolute—only tell me what it is.”

He took a long breath, and then said quietly, almost harshly,

“Will you marry me?”

“Heaven!” she gasped, in a voice of deep emotion; but although her face expressed the deepest surprise, there was no sign of repugnance or alarm. Her bosom heaved, her lips parted, and her eyes became moist with tender brightness.

Boinville dared not look at her, lest he should read refusal in her face, but at last, alarmed by her long silence, he raised his head, saying, “You think me too old—you are frightened—”

“Not frightened,” she answered, simply, “but surprised, and—glad. It is too good. I can hardly believe it.”

“My darling!” he cried, taking both her hands “you must believe it. I am the one to be glad, for I love you.”

She was silent, but there was no mistaking the tenderness and gratitude that were shining in her eyes, and Hubert Boinville must have read them aright, for he drew her closely to him, and meeting with no resistance, raised her hands to his lips and kissed them with youthful fervor.

“Holy Mother!” cried the old lady, appearing on the scene at that instant, and the others turned round, he a little confused; the girl blushing, but radiant.

“Do not be shocked, Madame Blouet,” said the deputy governor. “The evening that I dined here I found a wife; the ceremony will take place next month—with your permission.”