Then Cecile and I, long before it was reasonable,
took our station near a window overlooking the porte-cochere. I sat
with my work, while the children watched on the window-seat, and she,
at every exclamation of theirs, leaped up to look out, but only to
see some woodcutter with his pile of faggots, or a washer-woman
carrying home a dress displayed on its pole, or an ell of bread
coming in from the baker's; and she resumed her interrupted
conversation on her security that for the children's sake her husband
would set up his household together with her at the Hotel d'Aubepine.
She had been learning all she could, while she was with us, and if
she could only be such that he need not be ashamed of her, and would
love her only a little for his children's sake, how happy she should
be!
I encouraged her, for her little dull provincial convent air was
quite gone; she had acquired the air of society, my mother had taught
her something of the art of dress, and though nothing would ever make
her beautiful in feature, or striking in figure, she had such a
sweet, pleading, lovely expression of countenance that I could not
think how any one could resist her. At last it was no longer a false
alarm. The children cried out, not in vain. The six horses were
clattering under the gateway, the carriage came in sight before the
steps. Cecile dropped back in her chair as pale as death, murmuring:
'Tell me if he is there!'
Alas! 'he' was not there.
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