CHAPTER XXI.
IMPOSSIBILITIES.
“Here she is!” she said with pride. “You see I have had to carry her.”
She was quite out of breath and could scarcely speak.
The poor little child, sleepy and cross, allowed Leon to take her in his arms and laid her head on his shoulder only to fall asleep again.
“Have you nothing to say to him?” said Pepa, caressing one of her little hands. “Mona, my pretty one, tell him what I said to you.”
The little one shut her eyes, murmured a few words and gave herself up to sleep, without a fear or a care, on the very brink of the gulf that yawned at her deluded mother’s feet.
“She is asleep,” said Leon gently drawing the curly head to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. “We must talk very softly, since the force of circumstances compels us to meet and to speak.”
“We cannot stay here: we should be overheard from the corridor,” said Pepa taking him by the hand. “Besides, I must show you something which is in another part of the house. Come with me.”
He obeyed her. Pepa opened the door into the museum. There was a candle which she lighted; she led the way through a room full of old pictures, into a second and a third one, Leon carrying Monina, followed her without a word. At last he saw where he was.
“Here we shall not be disturbed by intruders, or by that mob of simpletons who have invaded the house,” she said.