Madame de la Tour was seated at a little distance, removed from the current of evening air which her delicate health would not permit her to inhale, and evidently suffering that extreme lassitude, which usually follows any strong excitement. Both remained silent: each apparently engrossed by thoughts which she cared not to communicate to the other. The silence was at length abruptly broken, by an exclamation from Luciè, of "Father Gilbert!" uttered in an accent so quick and startling, that Mad. de la Tour sprang involuntarily from her musing posture, and even the dog leaped on his feet, and looked inquiringly in her face.
"Poor Hero! I did not mean to disturb you," said Luciè, patting her dumb favorite, and rather embarrassed, that she had unwarily produced so much excitement.
"Father Gilbert!" repeated Mad. de la Tour; "and is he coming hither again?"
"No, I saw him but an instant," said Luciè; "and he has now disappeared behind the wall."
She hesitated, and still kept her eyes fixed on her aunt's face, as if wishing to ask some question, which she yet feared might not be well received.
"What would you say, Luciè?" asked Mad. de la Tour, with a faint smile; "I perceive there is something on your mind, which you would fain unburthen; and why should you hesitate to speak it to me?"
"Perhaps it is an idle curiosity, dear aunt," she replied; "but you asked if father Gilbert was coming hither _again_, as though he had already been here; and, I confess, I am anxious to learn if I understood you correctly?"
"You did, Luciè; and you will be more surprised when I assure you, that I held a long conference with him this morning: one too, in which _you_ are particularly concerned."
"_I_ concerned! _you_ hold a conference with father Gilbert!" said Luciè, in unfeigned astonishment; "dearest aunt, I entreat you to explain yourself."
"The explanation must necessarily be long, Luciè," she replied; "and as I know your feelings will be deeply excited, I fear the agitating events of this day have scarcely left you strength and spirits, to bear the recital. To-morrow"--
"Oh, now, dear aunt!" interrupted Luciè; "I am well, indeed, and can bear any thing better than suspense. I too, have seen the priest to-day, and his look,--his manner was so changed, yet still so unaccountable, that he has not been since one instant from my mind."