Mademoiselle
Alice gave me a juicy sample; but then I dare say you do not care
to have your pie served by her hand. It would interfere with your
appetite; eh, my son?"
Rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with
his back to the priest he strode away along the wet path leading
to the Roussillon place.
Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious
expression in which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an
elusive twilight. He took out his letter, but did not glance at
it, simply holding it tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand.
Then his old eyes stared vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is
cast back many, many years into the past. The missive was from
beyond the sea--he knew the handwriting--a waft of the flowers of
Avignon seemed to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his
grasp.
A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a
kid following. He was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats at
a lively trot.
"Bon jour, Pere Beret," he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly
on.
"Ah, ah; his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo," thought
the old priest, returning the salutation; "his throat aches for
the liquor,--the poor man."
Then he read again the letter's superscription and made a
faltering move, as if to break the seal.
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