They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico.
Mam'selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into her
pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and out
incessantly.
"But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?
How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!"
"She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours," responded Ma'ame
Pelagie, "and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; her
father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it if we
chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true Valmet."
Then Ma'ame Pelagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle
her horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the
fields; and Mam'selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled
grasses toward the cabin.
The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent
atmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these
two, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt
Pelagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the
light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crepe
myrtle. Mam'selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma'ame Pelagie looked
into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness of
the past in the living present.
And they made room between them for this young life.