I call it nonsense
myself," and the old lady shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly.
"But, my mother, she sings like an angel."
"Yes, yes, Noel; so Eugene Lacroix says too."
"Eugene Lacroix!" said Noel, starting; "I thought he was in Montreal."
"He has been here for the last week. He came down for a holiday, and is
always with Marie Gourdon."
"Yes, yes, they are old friends. I do not care much for Eugene Lacroix.
He seems to me a dreamy, impractical sort of person, and only thinks of
his books and those absurd pictures he is always making."
"You think them absurd?" replied madame.
"M. Bois-le-Duc told me he had great talent. You know that, for a time
the cure sent him to Laval at his own expense, and now talks of sending
him to Paris."
"To Paris! and for what purpose?"
"Oh! the cure thinks he will make a great painter. He is always painting
during his holidays. I'm sure I can't see the good of it."
"Well, my mother, M. Bois-le-Duc is a very clever man, and whatever he
does is good, but I, for one, have no very high opinion of Eugene
Lacroix."
While this conversation had been going on, Noel McAllister did ample
justice to the good fare his mother set before him.
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