When she ceased he gazed at her.
"No, of course, that's not all," Irene proceeded, with the
mischievous smile again; and she spoke much as she might have done
to an eagerly listening child. "Six years pass by. My father is
again la the east of France, and he goes to the old village. He is
received with enthusiasm; his name has become a proverb. Rossignol
_pere_, alas, is dead, long since. Dear Madame Rossignol lives, but
my father sees at a glance that she will not live long. The
excitement of meeting him was almost too much for her--pale, sweet
little woman. Thibaut was keeping shop with her, but he seemed out
of place there; a fine lad of eighteen; very intelligent,
wonderfully good-humoured, and his poor mother had no peace, night
or day, for the thought of what would become of him after her death;
he had no male kinsfolk, and certainly would not stick to a dull
little trade. My father thought, and after thinking, spoke. 'Madame,
will you let me take your son to England, and find something for him
to do?' She screamed with delight. 'But will Thibaut consent?'
Thibaut had his patriotic scruples; but when he saw and heard his
poor mother, he consented. Madame Rossignol had a sister near by,
with whom she could live. And so on the spot it was settled."
Piers hung on the speaker's lips; no tale had ever so engrossed him.
Indeed, it was charmingly told; with so much girlish sincerity, so
much womanly feeling.
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