marriage—a marriage with a young girl you’ve always known, who has been received here—”
“Ah, that’s it—we’ve always known her!” the old lady snapped him up.
“What of that? I don’t see—”
“Of course you don’t. You’re here so little: you don’t hear things....”
“What things?”
“Things in the air... that blow about.... You were doing your military service at the time....”
“At what time?”
She leaned forward and laid a warning hand on his arm. “Why did Corvenaire leave her all that money—why?”
“But why not—why shouldn’t he?” Jean stammered, indignant. Then she unpacked her bag—a heap of vague insinuations, baseless conjectures, village tattle, all, at the last analysis, based, as he succeeded in proving, and making her own, on a word launched at random by a discharged maid-servant who had retailed her grievance to the cure’s housekeeper. “Oh, she does what she likes with Monsieur le Marquis, the young miss! She knows how....” On that single phrase the neighbourhood had raised a slander built of adamant.
Well, I’ll give you an idea of what a determined fellow Réchamp is, when I tell you he pulled it down—or thought he did. He kept his temper, hunted up the servant’s record, proved her a liar and dishonest, cast grave doubts on the discretion of the cure’s housekeeper, and poured such a flood of ridicule over the whole flimsy fable, and those who had believed in it, that in sheer shamefacedness at having based her objection on such grounds, his grandmother gave way, and brought his parents toppling down with her.
All this happened a few weeks before the war, and soon afterward Mlle. Malo came down to Réchamp. Jean had insisted on her coming: he wanted her presence there, as his betrothed, to be known to the neighbourhood. As for her, she seemed delighted to come. I could see from Rechamp’s tone, when he reached this part of his story, that he rather thought I should expect its heroine to have shown a
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