"Poor Jean Jacques!" said Virginie Poucette to herself as her horses ate
up the ground. "That's another bit of bad luck. He'll not sleep to-night.
Ah, the poor Jean Jacques--and all alone--not a hand to hold; no one to
rumple that shaggy head of his or pat him on the back! His wife and
Ma'm'selle Zoe, they didn't know a good thing when they had it. No, he'll
not sleep to-night-ah, my dear Jean Jacques!"
CHAPTER XIX
SEBASTIAN DOLORES DOES NOT SLEEP
But Jean Jacques did sleep well that night; though it would have been
better for him if he had not done so. The contractor's workmen had
arrived in the early afternoon, he had seen the first ton of debris
removed from the ruins of the historic mill, and it was crowned by the
gold Cock of Beaugard, all grimy with the fire, but jaunty as of yore.
The cheerfulness of the workmen, who sang gaily an old chanson of
mill-life as they tugged at the timbers and stones, gave a fillip to the
spirits of Jean Jacques, to whom had come a red-letter day.
Like Mirza on the high hill of Bagdad he had had his philosophic
meditations; his good talk with Virginie Poucette had followed; and the
woman of her lingered in the feeling of his hand all day, as something
kind and homelike and true. Also in the evening had come M. Fille, who
brought him a message from Judge Carcasson, that he must make the world
sing for himself again.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267