“Fie, Mimmy!” said her mother; “why do you ask for the things before the waiter brings them round?”
“But, mamma,” said Mimmy, speaking English, “M. Lacordaire always gives me a fig every morning.”
“M. Lacordaire always spoils you, I think,” answered Mrs. Thompson, in French. And then they went thoroughly to work at their breakfast. During the whole meal M. Lacordaire attended assiduously to his neighbour; and did so without any evil result, except that one Frenchman with a black moustache, at the head of the table, trod on the toe of another Frenchman with another black moustache—winking as he made the sign—just as M. Lacordaire, having selected a bunch of grapes, put it on Mrs. Thompson’s plate with infinite grace. But who among us all is free from such impertinences as these?
“But madame really must see the château of Prince Polignac before she leaves Le Puy,” said M. Lacordaire.
“The château of who?” asked Mimmy, to whose young ears the French words were already becoming familiar.
“Prince Polignac, my dear. Well, I really don’t know, M. Lacordaire;—I have seen a great deal of the place already, and I shall be going now very soon; probably in a day or two,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“But madame must positively see the château,” said M. Lacordaire, very impressively; and then after a pause he added, “If madame will have the complaisance to commission me to procure a carriage for this afternoon, and will allow me the honour to be her guide, I shall consider myself one of the most fortunate of men.”
“Oh, yes, mamma, do go,” said Mimmy, clapping her hands. “And it is Thursday, and Lilian can go with us.”
“Be quiet, Mimmy, do. Thank you, no, M. Lacordaire. I could not go today; but I am extremely obliged by your politeness.”
M. Lacordaire still pressed the matter, and Mrs. Thompson still declined till it was time to rise from the table. She then declared that she did not think it possible that she should visit the château before she left Le Puy; but that she would give him an answer at dinner.
The most tedious time in the day to Mrs. Thompson were the two hours after breakfast. At one o’clock she daily went to the school, taking Mimmy, who for an hour or two shared her sister’s lessons. This and her little excursions about the place, and her shopping, managed to make away with her afternoon. Then in the evening, she generally saw something of M. Lacordaire. But those two hours after breakfast were hard of killing.
On this occasion, when she gained her own room, she as usual placed Mimmy on the sofa with a needle. Her custom then was to take up a novel; but on this morning she sat herself down in her armchair, and resting her head upon her hand and elbow, began to turn over certain circumstances in her mind.
“Mamma,” said Mimmy, “why won’t you go with M. Lacordaire to that place belonging to the prince? Prince—Polly something, wasn’t it?”
“Mind your work, my dear,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“But I do so wish you’d go, mamma. What was the prince’s name?”
“Polignac.”
“Mamma, ain’t princes very great people?”
“Yes, my dear; sometimes.”
“Is Prince Polly-nac like our Prince Alfred?”
“No, my dear; not at all. At least, I suppose not.”
“Is his mother a queen?”
“No, my dear.”
“Then his father must be a king?”
“No, my dear. It is quite a different thing here. Here in France they have a great many princes.”
“Well, at any rate I should like to see a prince’s château; so I do hope you’ll go.” And then there was a pause. “Mamma, could it come to pass, here in France, that M. Lacordaire should ever be a prince?”
“M. Lacordaire a prince! No; don’t talk such nonsense, but mind your work.”
“Isn’t M. Lacordaire a very nice man? Ain’t you very fond of him?”
To this question Mrs. Thompson made no answer.
“Mamma,” continued Mimmy, after a moment’s pause, “won’t you tell me whether you are fond of M. Lacordaire? I’m quite sure of this—that he’s very fond of you.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Mrs. Thompson, who could not bring herself to refrain from the question.
“Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your hand.”
“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Thompson; “hold your tongue. I don’t know what can have put such stuff into your head.”
“But he does, mamma,” said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to put her down.
Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head resting on her hand. She also, if the truth must be told, was thinking of M. Lacordaire and his fondness for herself. He had squeezed her hand and he had looked into her face. However much it may have been nonsense on Mimmy’s part to talk of such things, they had not the less absolutely occurred. Was it really the fact that M. Lacordaire was in love with her?
And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a passion? He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand today. Might it not be probable that he would advance a step further tomorrow? If so, what answer would she be prepared to make to him?
She did not think—so she said to herself—that she had any particular objection to marrying again. Thompson had been dead now for four years, and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the world could say she was wrong on that score. And as to marrying a Frenchman, she could not say she felt within herself any absolute repugnance to doing that. Of her own country, speaking of England as such, she, in truth, knew but little—and perhaps cared less. She had gone to India almost as a child, and England had not been specially kind to her on her return. She had found it dull and cold, stiff, and almost ill-natured. People there had not smiled on her and been civil as M. Lacordaire had done. As far as England and Englishmen were considered she saw no
