“We could marry her off easily enough.”
“You might, and you mightn’t. If she marry to Sir William’s satisfaction, he’ll leave her all he has in the world.”
“Egad, he must have a rare taste in a son-in-law if he likes the fellow I ‘ll promote to the place.”
“You seem to forget, Dudley, that the young lady has a will of her own. She’s a Lendrick too.”
“With all my heart, mother. She ‘ll not be a match for Lucy.”
“And would she– ”
“Ay, would she,” interrupted he, “if her pride as a woman – if her jealousy was touched. I have made her do more than that when I wounded her self-love!”
“You are a very amiable husband, I must say.”
“We might be better, perhaps, mother; but I suspect we are pretty much like our neighbors. And it’s positive you won’t come to dinner?”
“No! certainly not.”
“Well, I ‘ll try and look in at tea-time. You ‘ll not forget what I spoke of. I shall be in funds in less than three weeks.”
She gave a little incredulous laugh as she said “Goodbye!” She had heard of such pledges before, and knew well what faith to attach to them.
CHAPTER XXXIII. EVENING AT THE PRIORY
The Chief Baron brought his friend Haire back from Court to dine with him. The table had been laid for five, and it was only when Sewell entered the drawing-room that it was known Lady Lendrick had declined the invitation. Sir William heard the apology to the end; he even waited when Sewell concluded, to see if he desired to add anything more, but nothing came.
“In that case,” said he, at length, “we ‘ll order dinner.” That his irritation was extreme needed no close observation to detect, and the bell-rope came down with the pull by which he summoned the servant.
The dinner proceeded drearily enough. None liked to adventure on a remark which might lead to something unpleasant in discussion, and little was spoken on any side. Sewell praised the mutton, and the Chief Baron bowed stiffly. When Haire remarked that the pale sherry was excellent, he dryly told the butler to “fill Mr. Haire’s glass;” and though Lucy, with more caution, was silent, she did not escape, for he turned towards her and said, “We have not been favored with a word from your lips, Miss Lendrick; I hope these neuralgic headaches are not becoming a family affection.”
“I am perfectly well, sir,” said she, with a smile.
“It is Haire’s fault, then,” said the Judge, with one of his malicious twinkles of the eye, – “all Haire’s fault if we are dull. It is ever so with wits, Colonel Sewell; they will not perform to empty benches.”
“I don’t know whom you call a wit,” began Haire.
“My dear friend, the men of pleasantry and happy conceits must no more deny the reputation that attaches to them than must a rich merchant dishonor his bill; nor need a man resent more being called a Wit, than being styled a Poet, a Painter, a Chief Baron, or” – here he waved his hand towards Sewell, and bowing slightly, added – “a Chief Registrar to the Court of Exchequer.”
“Oh, have you got the appointment?” said Haire to the Colonel. “I am heartily glad of it. I ‘m delighted to know it has been given to one of the family.”
“As I said awhile ago,” said the Judge, with a smile of deeper malice, “these witty fellows spare nobody! At the very moment he praises the sherry he disparages the host. Why should not this place be filled by one of my family, Haire? I call upon you to show cause.”
“There’s no reason against it. I never said there was. Nay, I was far from satisfied with you on the day you refused my prayer on behalf of one belonging to you.”
“Sir, you are travelling out of the record,” said the Judge, angrily.
“I can only say,” added Haire, “that I wish Colonel Sewell joy with all my heart; and if he ‘ll allow me, I ‘ll do it in a bumper.”
“‘A reason fair to drink his health again!’ That ‘s not the line. How does it go, Lucy? Don’t you remember the verse?”
“No, sir; I never heard it.”
“‘A reason fair, – a reason fair.’ I declare I believe the newspapers are right. I am losing my memory. One of the scurrilous rascals t’other day said they saw no reason Justice should be deaf as well as blind. Haire, was that yours?”
“A thousand a year,” muttered Haire to Sewell.
“What is that, Haire?” cried the old Judge. “Do I hear you aright? You utter one thousand things just as good every year?”
“I was speaking of the Registrar’s salary,” said Haire, half testily.
“A thousand a year is a pittance, – a mere pittance, sir, in a country like England. It is like the place at a window to see a procession. You may gaze on the passing tide of humanity, but must not dare to mix in it.”
“And yet papa went half across the globe for it,” said Lucy, with a flushed and burning cheek.
“In your father’s profession the rewards are less money, Lucy, than the esteem and regard of society. I have ever thought it wise of our rulers not to bestow titles on physicians, but to leave them the unobtrusive and undistinguished comforters of every class and condition. The equal of any, – the companion of all.”
It was evident that the old Judge was eager for discussion on anything. He had tried in vain to provoke each of his guests, and he was almost irritable at the deference accorded him.
“Do I see you pass the decanter, Colonel Sewell? Are you not drinking any wine?”
“No, my Lord.”
“Perhaps you like coffee? Don’t you think, Lucy, you could give him some?”
“Yes, sir. I shall be delighted.”
“Very well. Haire and I will finish this magnum, and then join you in the drawing-room.”
Lucy took Sewells arm and retired. They were scarcely well out of the room when Sewell halted suddenly, and in a voice so artificial that, if Lucy had been given to suspectfulness, she would have detected at once, said, “Is the Judge always as pleasant and as witty as we saw him today?”
“To-day he was very far from himself; something, I ‘m sure, must have irritated him, for he was not in his usual mood.”
“I confess I thought him charming; so full of neat reply, pleasant apropos, and happy quotation.”
“He very often has days of all that you have just said, and I am delighted with them.”
“What an immense gain to a young girl – of course, I mean one whose education and tastes have fitted her for it – to be the companion of such a mind as his! Who is this Mr. Haire?”
“A very old friend. I believe he was a schoolfellow of grandpapa’s.”
“Not his equal, I suspect, in ability or knowledge.”
“Oh, nothing like it; a most worthy man, respected by every one, and devotedly attached to grandpapa, but not clever.”
“The Chief, I remarked, called him witty,” said Sewell with a faint twinkle in his eye.
“It was done in jest. He is fond of fathering on him the smart sayings of the day, and watching his attempts to disown them.”
“And Haire likes that?”
“I believe he likes grandpapa in every mood he has.”
“What an invaluable friend! I wish to Heaven he could find such another for me. I want – there ‘s nothing I want more than some one who would always approve of me.”
“Perhaps you might push this fidelity further than grandpapa does,” said she, with a smile.
“You mean that it might not always be so easy to applaud me.”
She only laughed, and made no effort to disclaim the assertion.
“Well,” said he, with a sigh, “who knows but if I live to be old and rich I may be fortunate enough to have such an accommodating friend? Who are the other ‘intimates’ here? I ask because we are going to be domesticated also.”
“I heard so this morning.”
“I hope with pleasure, though you have n’t said as much.”
“With pleasure, certainly; but with more misgiving than pleasure.”
“Pray explain this.”
“Simply that the very quiet life we lead here would not be endurable by people who like the world, and whom the world likes. We never see any one, we never go out, we-have not even those second-hand glances at society that people have who admit gossiping acquaintances; in fact, regard what you have witnessed to-day as a dinner-party, and then fashion for yourself our ordinary life.”
“And do you like it?”
“I know nothing else, and I am tolerably happy. If papa and Tom were here, I should be perfectly happy.”
“By Jove! you startle me,” said he, throwing away the unlighted cigar he had held for some minutes in his fingers; “I did n’t know it was so bad.”
“It is possible he may relax for you and Mrs. Sewell; indeed, I think it more than likely that he will.”
“Ay, but the relaxation might only be in favor of a few more like that old gent we had to-day. No, no; the thing will never work. I see it at once. My mother said we could not possibly stand it three weeks, and I perceive it is your opinion too.”
“I did not say so much,” said she, smiling.
“Joking apart,” said he, in a tone that assuredly bespoke sincerity, “I could n’t stand such a dinner as we had to-day very often. I can bear being bullied, for I was brought up to it. I served on Rolffe’s staff in Bombay for four years, and when a man has been an aide-de-camp he knows what being bullied means; but what I could not endure is that outpouring of conceit mingled with rotten recollections. Another evening of it would kill me.”
“I certainly would not advise your coming here at that price,” said she, with a gravity almost comical.
“The difficulty is how to get off. He appears to me to resent as an affront everything that differs from his own views.”
“He is not accustomed to much contradiction.”
“Not to any at all!”
The energy with which he said this made her laugh heartily, and he half smiled at the situation himself.
“They are coming upstairs,” said she; “will you ring for tea? – the bell is beside you.”
“Oh, if they ‘re coming I ‘m off. I promised my mother a short visit this evening. Make my excuses if I am asked for;” and with this he slipped from the room and went his way.
“Where’s the Colonel, Lucy? Has he gone to bed?”
“No, sir, he has gone to see his mother; he had made some engagement to visit her this evening.”
“This new school of politeness is too liberal for my taste. When we were young men, Haire, we would not have ventured to leave the house where we had dined without saluting the host.”
“I take it we must keep up with the spirit of our time.” “You mistake, Haire, – it is the spirit of our time is in arrear. It is that same spirit lagging behind, and deserting the post it once occupied, makes us seem in default. Let us have the cribbage-board, Lucy. Haire has said all the smart things he means to give us this evening, and I will take my revenge at the only game at which I am his master. Haire, who reads men like a book, Lucy,” continued the Chief, as he dealt the cards, “says that our gallant friend will rebel against our humdrum life here. I demur to the opinion, – what say you?” But he was now deep in his game, and never heeded the answer.
CHAPTER XXXIV. SEWELL’S TROUBLES
“A letter for you by the post, sir, and his Lordship’s compliments to say he is waiting breakfast,” were the first words which Sewell heard the next morning.
“Waiting breakfast! Tell him not to wait, – I mean, make my respects to his Lordship, and say I feel very poorly to-day, – that I think I ‘ll not get up just yet.”
“Would you like to see Dr. Beattie, sir? He’s in the drawing-room.”
“Nothing of the kind. It’s a complaint I caught in India; I manage it myself. Bring me up some coffee and rum in about an hour, and mind, don’t disturb me on any account till then. What an infernal house!” muttered he, as the man withdrew. “A subaltern called up for morning parade has a better life than this. Nine o’clock only! What can this old ass mean by this pretended activity? Upon whom can it impose? Who will believe that it signifies a rush whether he lay abed till noon or rose by daybreak?” A gentle tap came to the door, but as he made no reply there came after a pause another, a little louder. Sewell still preserved silence, and at last the sound of retiring footsteps along the corridor. “Not if I know it,” muttered he to himself, as he turned round and fell off asleep again.
“The coffee, sir, and a despatch; shall I sign the receipt for you?” said the servant, as he reappeared about noon.
“Yes; open the window a little, and leave me.”
Leaning on his arm, he tore open the envelope and glanced at the signature, – “Lucy.” He then read, “Send down Eccles or Beattie by next train; he is worse.” He read and re-read this at least half-a-dozen times over before he bethought him of the letter that lay still unopened on the bed.
He now broke the seal; it was also from his wife, dated the preceding evening, and very brief: —
“Dear Dudley, – Captain Trafford has had a severe fall. Crescy balked at the brook and fell afterwards. Trafford was struck on the head as he rose by Mr. Creagh’s horse. It is feared the skull is fractured. You are much blamed for having asked him to ride a horse so much under his weight. All have refused to accept their bets but Kinshela the grocer. I have written to Sir H. Trafford, and I telegraphed to him Dr. Tobin’s opinion, which is not favorable. I suppose you will come back at once; if not, telegraph what you advise to be done. Mr. Balfour is here still, but I do not find he is of much use. The veterinary decided Crescy should be shot, as the plate-bone, I think he called it, was fractured; and as he was in great pain, I consented. I hope I have done right. – Yours truly,
“Lucy Sewell.”
“Here’s a go! a horse I refused four hundred and fifty for on Tuesday last! I am a lucky dog, there ‘s no denying it. I did n’t know there was a man in Europe could have made that horse balk his fence. What a rumpus to make about a fellow getting a ‘cropper’! My share of the disaster is a deuced deal the worst. I ‘ll never chance on such a horse again. How am I to find either of these men?” muttered he, as he took up the telegram. He rang the bell violently, and scarcely ceased to pull at it till the servant entered.
“Where does Dr. Eccles live?”
“Sir Gilbert, sir?”
“Ay, if he be Sir Gilbert.”
“Merrion Square, sir,” said the man reproachfully, for he thought it rather hard to ignore one of the great celebrities of the land.
“Take this note to him, that I ‘ll write now, and if he be from home go to the other man, – what’s his name? – Beattie.”
“Dr. Beattie is coming to dinner to-day, sir,” said the servant, thinking to facilitate matters.
“Just do as I tell you, my good fellow, and don’t interrupt. If I am to take up my quarters here, you’ll all of you have to change some of your present habits.” As he spoke, he dashed off a few hasty lines, addressing them to Sir Gilbert Eccles or Dr. Beattie. “Ask if it’s ‘all right;’ that will be sufficient reply; and now send me my bath.” As he proceeded with his dressing, – a very lengthy affair it always was, – he canvassed with himself whether or not he ought to take the train and go down to the country with the doctor. Possibly few men in such circumstances would have given the matter a doubt. The poor fellow who had incurred the mishap had been, at his insistence, acting for him. Had it not been for Se well’s pressing this task upon him, Trafford would at that moment have been hale and hearty. Sewell knew all this well; he read the event just as nineteen out of every twenty would have read it, but having done so, he proceeded to satisfy himself why all these reasonings should give way to weightier considerations.
First of all, it would not be quite convenient to let the old Judge know anything of these doings in the country. His strait-laced notions might revolt at races and betting-rings. It might not be perhaps decorous that a registrar of a high court should be the patron of such sports. These were prudential reasons, which he dilated on for some time. Then came some, others more sentimental. It was to a house of doctors and nurses and gloom and sorrow he should go back. All these were to him peculiarly distasteful. He should be tremendously “bored” by it all, and being “bored” was to him whatever was least tolerable in life. It was strange that there was one other reason stronger than all these, – a reason that really touched him in what was the nearest thing in his nature to heart. He couldn’t go back and look at the empty loose-box where his favorite horse once stood, and where he was never to stand more. Crescy the animal he was so proud of, – the horse he counted on for who knows what future triumphs, – the first steeplechase horse, he felt convinced, in Ireland, if not in the kingdom, – such strength, such power in the loins, such square joints, such courage, should he ever see united again? If there was anything in that man’s nature that represented affection, he had it for this horse. He knew well to what advantage he looked when on his back, – he knew what admiration and envy it drew upon him to see him thus mounted. He had won him at billiards from a man who was half broken-hearted at parting with him, and who offered immense terms rather than lose him.
“He said I’d have no luck with him,” muttered Sewell, now in his misery, – “and, confound the fellow! he was right. No, I can’t go back to look at his empty stall. It would half kill me.”
It was very real grief, all this; he was as thoroughly heart-sore as it was possible for him to be. He sorrowed for what nothing in his future life could replace to him; and this is a very deep sorrow.
Trafford’s misfortune was so much the origin and cause of his own disaster that he actually thought of him with bitterness. The man who could make Crescy balk! What fate could be too hard for him?
Nor was he quite easy in his mind about that passage in his wife’s letter stating that men would not take their bets. Was this meant as reflecting upon him? Was it a censure on him for making Trafford ride a horse beneath his weight? “They get up some stupid cry of that sort,” muttered he, “as if I am not the heaviest loser of all. I lost a horse that was worth a score of Traffords.”
When dressed, Sewell went down to the garden and lit his cigar. His sorrow had grown calmer, and he began to think that in the new life before him he should have had to give up horses and sport of every kind. “I must make my book now on this old fellow, and get him to make me his heir. He cares little for his son, and he can be made to care just as little for his granddaughter. That’s the only game open to me, – a dreary life it promises to be, but it’s better than a jail.”
The great large wilderness of a garden, stretching away into an orchard at the end, was in itself a place to suggest sombre thoughts, – so silent and forsaken did it all appear. The fruit lay thick on the ground uncared for; the artichokes, grown to the height of shrubs, looked monsters of uncouthness; and even in the alleys flower-seeds had fallen and given birth to flowers, which struggled up through the gravel and hung their bright petals over the footway. There was in the neglect, the silence, the un-cared-for luxuriance of the place, all that could make a moody man moodier; and as he knocked off the great heads of the tall hollyhocks, he thought, and even said aloud, “This is about as much amusement as such a spot offers.”
“Oh no, not so bad as that,” said a laughing voice; and Lucy peeped over a laurel-hedge with a rake in her hand, and seemed immensely amused at his discomfiture.
“Where are you? – I mean, how is one to come near you?” said he, trying to laugh, but not successfully.
“Go round yonder by the fish-pond, and you ‘ll find a wicket. This is my garden, and I till it myself.”
“So!” said he, entering a neat little enclosure, with beds of flowers and flowering shrubs, “this is your garden?”
“Yes, – what do you think of it?”
“It’s very pretty, – it ‘s very nice. I should like it larger, perhaps.”
“So would I; but, being my own gardener, I find it quite big enough.”
“Why doesn’t the Chief give you a gardener? – he’s rich enough, surely.”
“He never cared for gardening himself. Indeed, I think it is the wild confusion of foliage here that he likes. He said to me one day, ‘In my old garden a man loses himself in thought. In this trimly kept place one is ever occupied by the melon-frame or the forcing-house.’”
“That’s the dreadful thing about old people; they are ever for making the whims and crotchets of age the rules of life to others. I wonder you bear this so well.”
“I didn’t know that I bore anything,” said she, with a smile.
“That’s true slave doctrine, I must say; and when one does not feel bondage, there’s no more to be said.”
“I suspect I have a great deal more freedom than most girls; my time is almost all my own, to dispose of as I will. I read, or play, or walk, or work, as I feel inclined. If I wish to occupy myself with household matters, I am the mistress here.”
“In other words, you are free to do everything that is not worth doing, – you lead the life of a nun in a convent, only that you have not even a sister nun to talk to.”
“And which are the things you say are worth doing?”
“Would you not care to go out into the world, to mix in society, to go to balls, theatres, fêtes, and such-like? Would you not like to ride? I don’t mean it for flattery, but would you not, like the admiration you would be sure to meet, – the sort of homage people render to beauty, the ouly tribute the world ever paid freely, – are all these not worth something?”
“I am sure they are: they are worth a great deal to those who can enjoy them with a happy heart; but remember, Colonel Se well, I have a father living in exile, simply to earn a livelihood, and I have a brother toiling for his bread in a strange land: is it likely I could forget these, or is it likely that I could carry such cares about with me, and enjoy the pleasures you tell of?”
“Oh! as for that, I never met the man, nor woman either, that could bring into the world a mind unburdened by care. You must take life as it is. If I was to wait for a heart at ease before I went into society, I ‘d have to decline a few dinner-parties. Your only chance of a little respite, besides, is at your age. The misfortunes of life begin as a little drizzle, but become a regular downpour when one gets to my time of life. Let me just tell you what this morning brought forth. A letter and then a telegram from my wife, to tell me that my favorite horse – an animal worth five hundred pounds if he was worth five shillings – the truest, bravest, best horse I ever backed – has just been killed by a stupid fellow I got to ride for me. What he did to make the horse refuse his leap, what magic he used, what conjuring trick he performed, I can’t tell. With me it was enough to show him his fence, and if I wanted it I could n’t have held him back. But this fellow – a dragoon, too, and the crack rider of his regiment – contrives to discourage my poor beast, then rushes him at the jump at half speed. I know it was a widish brook, and they tumbled in, and my horse smashed his blade bone, – of course there was nothing for it but to shoot him.”
“How sad! I am really sorry for you.”
“And all this came of the old Judge’s message, the stupidity of sending me five words in a telegram, instead of writing a proper note, and saying what he wanted. But for that I ‘d have stayed at home, ridden my horse, won my match, and spared myself the whole disaster.”
“Grandpapa is often very hasty in his decisions, but I believe he seldom sees cause to revoke them.”
“The old theory, ‘The King can do no wrong,’” said Sewell, with a saucy laugh; “but remember he can often do a deal of mischief incidentally, as it were, – as on the present occasion.”
“And the rider, what of him? Did he escape unhurt?” said she, eager to avoid unpleasant discussion.
“The rider! my dear young lady,” said he, with affected slowness, – “the rider came to grief. What he did, or how he did it, to throw my poor horse down, is his own secret, and, from what I hear, he is likely to keep it. No, no, don’t look so horrified, – he’s not killed, but I don’t suspect he’s a long way off it. He got a smashing fall at a fence I ‘d have backed myself to ride with my hands tied. Ay, and to have my good horse back again, I ‘d ride in that fashion to-morrow.”
“And the poor fellow, where is he now?”
“The poor fellow is receiving the very sweetest of Mrs. Sewell’s attentions. He is at my house, – in all likelihood in my room, – not that he is very conscious of all the favors bestowed upon him.”
“Oh, don’t talk with that pretended indifference! You must be, you cannot help being, deeply sorry for what has happened.”
“There can be very little doubt on that score. I’ve lost such a horse as I never shall own again.”
“Pray think of something beside your horse. Who was he? What’s his name?”
“A stranger, – an Englishman; you never heard of him; and I wish I had never heard of him!”
“What are you smiling at?” said she, after a pause, for he stood as though reflecting, and a very strange half-smile moved his mouth.
“I was just thinking,” said he, gravely, “what his younger brother ought to give me; for this fellow was an elder son, and heir to a fine estate too.”
She turned an indignant glance towards him, and moved away. He was quickly after her, however, and, laying his hand on her arm, said good-humoredly: “Come, don’t be angry with me. I ‘m sorry, if you like, – I ‘m very sorry for this poor fellow. I won’t say that my own loss does not dash my sorrow with a little anger, – he was such a horse! and the whole thing was such a blunder! as fair a brook, – with a high bank, it’s true, – but as fair a fence as ever & man rode at, and ground like this we ‘re walking over to take off from.”
“Is he in danger?”
“I believe so; here’s what my wife says. Oh, I haven’t got the letter about me, but it comes to this, I was to send down one of the best doctors by the first train, telling him it was a case of compression or concussion, which is it? And so I have despatched Beattie, your grandfather’s man. I suppose there ‘s no better?”
“But why have you not gone back yourself? He was a friend, was he not?”
“Yes, he was what people would call a friend. I ‘m like the hare in the fable, I have many friends; but if I must be confidential, I ‘ll tell you why I did not go. I had a notion, just as likely to be wrong as right, that the Chief would take offence at his Registrar being a sporting character, and that if I were to absent myself just now, he’d find out the reason, whereas by staying here I could keep all quiet, and when Beattie came back I could square him.”
“You could what?”
“A thousand pardons for my bit of slang; but the fact is, just as one talks French when he wants to say nothings, one takes to slang when one requires to be shifty. I meant to say, I could manage to make the doctor hold his tongue.”
“Not if grandpapa were to question him.”
Sewell smiled, and shook his head in dissent.
“No, no. You’re quite mistaken in Dr. Beattie; and what’s more, you ‘re quite mistaken in grandpapa too, if you imagine that he ‘ll think the better of you for forgetting the claims of friendship.”
“There was none.”
“Well, of humanity, then! It was in your cause this man suffered, and it is in your house he lies ill. I think you ought to be there also.”
“Do you think so?”
“I ‘m sure of it. You know the world a great deal better than I do, and you can tell what people will say of your absence; but I think it requires no knowledge of more than one’s own nature to feel what is right and proper here.”
“Indeed!” said he, reflectingly.
“Don’t you agree with me?”
“Perhaps, – that is, in part. I suppose what you mean about the world is, that there will be some scandal afloat, the ‘young wife’ story, and all that sort of balderdash?”
“I really do not understand you.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Certainly not. What do you mean?”
“Possibly you did not understand me. Well, if I am to go, there ‘s no time to be lost. It’s four o’clock already, and the last train leaves at five-forty. I will go.”
“You are quite right.”
“You ‘ll make my excuses to the Chief. You ‘ll tell him that my wife’s message was so alarming that I could not delay my departure. Beattie will probably be back tomorrow, and bring you news of us.”
“Won’t you write a few lines?”
“I ‘m not sure, – I ‘ll not promise. I’m a bad penman, but my wife will write, I ‘ve no doubt. Say all sorts of affectionate and dutiful things to the Chief for me; tell him I went away in despair at not being able to say good-bye; he likes that style of thing, does n’t he?”
“I don’t think he cares much for ‘that style of thing,’” said she, with a saucy smile.
“What a capital mimic you are! Do you know I am just beginning to suspect that you are, for all your quiet simplicity of manner, a deuced deep one. Am I right?”
She shook her head, but made no reply.
“Not that I ‘d like you the less for it,” said he, eagerly; “on the contrary, we ‘d understand each other all the better; there’s nothing like people talking the same language, eh?”
“I hope you’ll not lose your train,” said she, looking at her watch; “I am half-past four.”
“A broad hint,” said he, laughing; “bye-bye, —à bientôt.”