"It is time that Rosalie should be married," said the Baroness one day
to Monsieur de Watteville. "She is nineteen, and she is fearfully
altered in these last months."
"I do not know what ails her," said the Baron.
"When fathers do not know what ails their daughters, mothers can
guess," said the Baroness; "we must get her married."
"I am quite willing," said the Baron. "I shall give her les Rouxey now
that the Court has settled our quarrel with the authorities of Riceys
by fixing the boundary line at three hundred feet up the side of the
Dent de Vilard. I am having a trench made to collect all the water and
carry it into the lake. The village did not appeal, so the decision is
final."
"It has never occurred to you," said Madame de Watteville, "that this
decision cost me thirty thousand francs handed over to Chantonnit.
That peasant would take nothing else; he sold us peace.--If you give
away les Rouxey, you will have nothing left," said the Baroness.
"I do not need much," said the Baron; "I am breaking up."
"You eat like an ogre!"
"Just so. But however much I may eat, I feel my legs get weaker and
weaker--"
"It is from working the lathe," said his wife.
"I do not know," said he.
"We will marry Rosalie to Monsieur de Soulas; if you give her les
Rouxey, keep the life interest. I will give them fifteen thousand
francs a year in the funds. Our children can live here; I do not see
that they are much to be pitied.
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