Cecile was now sufficiently recovered to leave her pretty and bowery
bedroom and come down to the general living room. This room, half
kitchen, half parlor, again in an undefined way reminded her of the
old English farmhouse where she and Maurice had been both happy and
unhappy not so long ago. Here Cecile saw for the first time young
Mme. Malet's husband. He was a big and handsome fellow, very dark--as
dark as Joe; he had a certain look of Joe which rather puzzled Cecile
and caused her look at him a great deal. Watching him, she also
noticed something else. That handsome young matron, Mme. Malet, that
much idolized wife and mother, was not quite happy. She had high
spirits; she laughed a full, rich laugh often through the day; she
ran briskly about; she sang at her work; but for all that, when for a
few moments she was quiet, a shadow would steal over her bright face.
When no one appeared to notice, sighs would fall from her cherry
lips. As she sat by the open lattice window, always busy, making or
mending, she would begin an English song, then stop, perhaps to
change it for a gay French one, perhaps to wipe away a hasty tear.
Once when she and Cecile were alone, and the little girl began
talking innocently of the country where she had been brought up, she
interrupted her almost petulantly:
"Stop," she said, "tell me nothing about England. I was born there,
but I don't love it; France is my country now."
Then seeing her husband in the distance, she ran out to meet him,
and presently came in leaning on his arm, but her blue eyes were wet
with sudden tears.
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