Maurice, by a gesture, prayed her to sit down. Baptiste stood in the doorway; his attitude betokened a reluctance to enter, and a desire to be quickly dismissed. After a long interval, the viscount, slowly raising his head, was again struck by the perturbed mien of the guileless old man, whose native simplicity, warmth, and ingenuousness would have melted any mask he attempted to assume. Maurice had almost abandoned all expectation that he would receive any information from the domestics; but he now experienced a sudden renewal of hope.
"Baptiste," he said, scrutinizing the ancient gardener closely, "do you not know where Mademoiselle Madeleine is?"
"No, monsieur."
The reply was uttered in a tone of genuine sadness.
"You cannot even guess?"
"No, monsieur."
"Do you know how she left here?"
"No, monsieur."
"Baptiste, you are not speaking falsely?—you are not trifling with me? If you are, you can hardly know how cruelly you are adding to my sorrow."
"I have spoken the exact truth, monsieur."