As his eyes sought and dwelt upon the roof of the little
chapel where his father and mother lay sleeping side by side, he almost
reproached himself for wishing to go and leave them, and it required a
mighty effort to turn away and ride after the chariot, which was some
distance in advance of him. He had soon overtaken and passed it, when
a gentle gust of wind brought to him the penetrating, faintly aromatic
scent of his native heather, still wet from last night's rain, and also
the silvery sound of a distant convent bell that was associated with his
earliest recollections. They both seemed to be reproaching him for his
desertion of his home, and he involuntarily checked the old pony,
and made as if he would turn back. Miraut and Beelzebub, seeming to
understand the movement, looked up at him eagerly, but as he was in the
very act of turning the horse's head he met Isabelle's soft eyes
fixed on him with such an entreating, wistful look that he flushed and
trembled under it, and entirely forgetting his ancient chateau, the
perfume of the heather, and the quick strokes of the distant bell, that
still continued ringing, he put spurs to his horse and dashed on in
advance again. The struggle was over--Isabelle had conquered.
When the highway was reached, de Sigognac again fell behind the
chariot--which moved more quickly over the smooth, hard road--so that
Pierre might be able to catch up to him, and rode slowly forward, lost
in thought; he roused himself, however, in time to take one last look
at the towers of Sigognac, which were still visible over the tops of
the pine trees.
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