It was very
beautiful and noble; he would not fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice. Did
he not seem to say that he would not fail to speak of it to God?
Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I sat
down on the grass and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on me
his dull and lifeless eye:
"The celebrated Vergniand," said he, "was afflicted with that mania of
sitting on the ground and playing with animals."
"It is a mania," I replied, very innocently. "If there were none others,
the world would get along without so much meddling on the part of
others."
My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He was
charged with a commission; his uncle, the cure, had spoken to him of a
poor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such and
such a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; he
hoped that Madame Pierson--
I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply she
would make and hoping she would say something in order to drown out the
memory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed, and
he retired.
When he had gone our gaiety returned. We entered a greenhouse in the rear
of the garden.
Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her peasants,
everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must have its
drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that she might be gay and
happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than her
little greenhouse.
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