“The farmer from La Lande had eggs in his basket; I asked him for some, and to please me he let me have these, the nice man.”
After two hours of industrious application, Eugénie succeeded in preparing a very simple meal; it cost but little, it is true, but it was a terrible infringement of the immemorial laws and customs of the house. No one sat down to the midday meal, which consisted of a little bread, some fruit or butter, and a glass of wine. Twenty times in those two hours Eugénie had left her work to watch the coffee boil, or to listen for any sound announcing that her cousin was getting up; now looking round on the table drawn up to the fire, with one of the armchairs set beside it for her cousin, on the two plates of fruit, the eggcups, the bottle of white wine, the bread, and the little pyramid of white sugar in a saucer; Eugénie trembled from head to foot at the mere thought of the glance her father would give her if he should happen to come in at that moment. Often, therefore, did she look at the clock, to see if there was yet time for her cousin to finish his breakfast before her parent’s return.
“Never mind, Eugénie, if your father comes in, I will take all the blame,” said Mme. Grandet.
Eugénie could not keep back the tears. “Oh! my kind mother,” she cried; “I have not loved you enough!”
Charles, after making innumerable pirouettes around his room, came down at last, singing gay little snatches of song. Luckily it was only eleven o’clock after all. He had taken as much pains with his appearance (the Parisian!) as if he had been staying in the château belonging to the highborn fair one who was traveling in Scotland; and now he came in with that gracious air of condescension which sits not ill on youth, and which gave Eugénie a melancholy pleasure. He had come to regard the collapse of his castles in Anjou as a very good joke, and went up to his aunt quite gaily.
“I hope you slept well, dear aunt? And you too, cousin?”
“Very well, sir; how did you sleep?”
“Soundly.”
“Cousin, you must be hungry,” said Eugénie; “sit down.”
“Oh! I never breakfast before twelve o’clock, just after I rise. But I have fared so badly on my journey, that I will yield to persuasion. Besides—” he drew out the daintiest little watch that ever issued from Breguet’s workshop. “Dear me, it is only eleven o’clock; I have been up betimes.”
“Up betimes?” asked Mme. Grandet.
“Yes, but I wanted to set my things straight. Well, I am quite ready for something, something not very substantial, a fowl or a partridge.”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Nanon, hearing these words.
“A partridge,” Eugénie said to herself. She would willingly have given all she had for one.
“Come and take your seat,” said Mme. Grandet, addressing her nephew.
The dandy sank into the armchair in a graceful attitude, much as a pretty woman might recline on her sofa. Eugénie and her mother drew their chairs to the fire and sat near him.
“Do you always live here?” Charles inquired, thinking that the room looked even more hideous by daylight than by candle light.
“Always,” Eugénie answered, watching him as she spoke. “Always, except during the vintage. Then we go to help Nanon, and we all stay at the Abbey at Noyers.”
“Do you never take a walk?”
“Sometimes, on Sundays after vespers, when it is fine, we walk down as far as the bridge,” said Mme. Grandet, “or we sometimes go to see them cutting the hay.”
“Have you a theatre here?”
“Go to the play!” cried Mme. Grandet; “go to see playactors! Why, sir, do you not know that that is a mortal sin?”
“There, sir,” said Nanon, bringing in the eggs, “we will give you chickens in the shell.”
“Oh! new-laid eggs,” said Charles, who, after the manner of those accustomed to luxury, had quite forgotten all about his partridge. “Delicious! Do you happen to have any butter, eh, my good girl?”
“Butter? If you have butter now, you will have no cake by-and-by,” said the handmaid.
“Yes, of course, Nanon; bring some butter,” cried Eugénie.
The young girl watched her cousin while he cut his bread and butter into strips, and felt happy. The most romantic shopgirl in Paris could not more thoroughly enjoy the spectacle of innocence triumphant in a melodrama. It must be conceded that Charles, who had been brought up by a graceful and charming mother, and had received his “finishing education” from an accomplished woman of the world, was as dainty, neat and elegant in his ways as any coxcomb of the gentler sex. The girl’s quiet sympathy produced an almost magnetic effect. Charles, finding himself thus waited upon by his cousin and aunt, could not resist the influence of their overflowing kindness. He was radiant with good-humor, and the look he gave Eugénie was almost a smile. As he looked at her more closely he noticed her pure, regular features, her unconscious attitude, the wonderful clearness of her eyes, in which love sparkled, though she as yet knew nothing of love but its pain and a wistful longing.
“Really, my dear cousin,” he said, “if you were in a box at the opera and in evening dress, and I would answer for it, my aunt’s remark about deadly sin would be justified; all the men would be envious, and all the women jealous.”
Eugénie’s heart beat fast with joy at this compliment, though it conveyed no meaning whatever to her mind.
“You are laughing at a poor little country cousin,” she said.
“If you knew me better, cousin, you would know that I detest banter; it sears the heart and deadens the feelings.” And he swallowed down a strip of bread and butter with
