“Pierre is my name,” I said.
“I do not know how old I am, M. Pierre,” and it seemed to me that her voice dwelt lovingly on the word.
“And is Mère Fouchon your mother?”
“I do not know that, either, M. Pierre. Only——” and she hesitated.
“Only what, Ninon? Tell me; do not be afraid.”
“Only I hope that she is not my mother, because I hate her.”
“She has not been kind to you then, Ninon?”
“Kind to me!” and I felt her shudder. “Ah, if you knew, Monsieur! The beatings—the nights and days spent here in this cavern—sometimes I thought she would kill me. If she were my mother, she would not hate me so, would she, Monsieur?”
I held her closer to me with aching heart.
“No, she would not hate you if she were your mother, Ninon; she would love you. I am sure she is not your mother. Have you always lived here?”