“Cousin!”
“Yes, cousin.”
“Would you rather have breakfast downstairs or up here in your room?”
“Whichever you please.”
“How do you feel?”
“I am ashamed to say that I am hungry.”
This talk through the closed door was like an episode in a romance for Eugénie.
“Very well then, we will bring your breakfast up to your room, so that my father may not be vexed about it.”
She sprang downstairs, and ran into the kitchen with the swiftness of a bird.
“Nanon, just go and set his room straight.”
The familiar staircase which she had gone up and down so often, and which echoed with every sound, seemed no longer old in Eugénie’s eyes; it was radiant with light, it seemed to speak in a language which she understood, it was young again as she herself was, young like the love in her heart. And the mother, the kind, indulgent mother, was ready to lend herself to her daughter’s whims, and as soon as Charles’ room was ready they both went thither to sit with him. Does not Christian charity bid us comfort the mourner? Little religious sophistries were not wanting by which the women justified themselves.
Charles Grandet received the most tender and affectionate care. Such delicate tact and sweet kindness touched him very closely in his desolation; and for these two souls, they found a moment’s freedom from the restraint under which they lived; they were at home in an atmosphere of sorrow; they could give him the quick sympathy of fellowship in misfortune. Eugénie could avail herself of the privilege of relationship to set his linen in order, and to arrange the trifles that lay on the dressing-table; she could admire the wonderful knickknacks at her leisure; all the paraphernalia of luxury, the delicately-wrought gold and silver passed through her hands, her fingers dwelt lingeringly on them under the pretext of looking closely at the workmanship.
Charles was deeply touched by the generous interest which his aunt and cousin took in him. He knew Parisian life quite sufficiently to know that under these circumstances his old acquaintances and friends would have grown cold and distant at once. But his trouble had brought out all the peculiar beauty of Eugénie’s character, and he began to admire the simplicity of manner which had provoked his amusement but yesterday. So when Eugénie waited on her cousin with such frank goodwill, taking from Nanon the earthenware bowl full of coffee and cream to set it before him herself, the Parisian’s eyes filled with tears; and when he met her kind glance he took her hand in his and kissed it.
“Well, what is the matter now?” she asked.
“Oh! they are tears of gratitude,” he answered.
Eugénie turned hastily away, took the candles from the chimneypiece and held them out to Nanon.
“Here,” she said, “take these away.”
When she could look at her cousin again, the flush was still on her face, but her eyes at least did not betray her, and gave no sign of the excess of joy that flooded her heart; yet the same thought was dawning in both their souls, and could be read in the eyes of either, and they knew that the future was theirs. This thrill of happiness was all the sweeter to Charles in his great sorrow, because it was so little expected.
There was a knock at the door, and both the women hurried down to their places by the window. It was lucky for them that their flight downstairs was sufficiently precipitate, and that they were at their work when Grandet came in, for if he had met them beneath the archway, all his suspicions would be aroused at once. After the midday meal, which he took standing, the keeper, who had not yet received his promised reward, appeared from Froidfond, bringing with him a hare, some partridges shot in the park, a few eels, and a couple of pike sent by him from the miller’s.
“Aha! so here is old Cornoiller; you come just when you are wanted, like salt fish in Lent. Is all that fit to eat?”
“Yes, sir; all killed the day before yesterday.”
“Come, Nanon, look alive! Just take this, it will do for dinner today; the two Cruchots are coming.”
Nanon opened her eyes with amazement, and stared first at one and then at another.
“Oh! indeed,” she said; “and where are the herbs and the bacon to come from?”
“Wife,” said Grandet, “let Nanon have six francs, and remind me to go down into the cellar to look out a bottle of good wine.”
“Well, then, M. Grandet,” the gamekeeper began (he wished to see the question of his salary properly settled, and was duly primed with a speech), “M. Grandet—”
“Tut, tut, tut,” said Grandet, “I know what you are going to say; you are a good fellow, we will see about that tomorrow, I am very busy today. Give him five francs, wife,” he added, looking at Mme. Grandet, and with that he beat a retreat. The poor woman was only too happy to purchase peace at the price of eleven francs. She knew by experience that Grandet usually kept quiet for a fortnight after he had made her disburse coin by coin the money which he had given her.
“There, Cornoiller,” she said, as she slipped ten francs into his hand; “we will repay you for your services one of these days.”
Cornoiller had no answer ready, so he went.
“Madame,” said Nanon, who had by this time put on her black bonnet and had a basket on her arm, “three francs will be quite enough; keep the rest. I shall manage just as well with three.”
“Let us have a good dinner, Nanon; my cousin is coming downstairs,” said Eugénie.
“There is something very extraordinary going on, I am sure,” said Mme. Grandet. “This makes the third time since we were married that your father has asked anyone here to dinner.”
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon; Eugénie and her
