“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered, bending over me, “I have the file. Here is the file.”
“The file!” I cried. “Oh, give it me, Ninon! There is not a moment to lose.”
She placed her trembling hand in mine and gave me the file. I ran my fingers over it. It was old, rusty, dull—but it had been a good file, once; doubtless part of some long-dead burglar’s kit—would it do the work? In an agony of haste I ran my hand along the chain until I found what seemed the weakest link, and set to work upon it. At the end of a few minutes I found I had made a scratch in the iron, and hope began to revive in my heart. The sound of sobbing startled me.
“Is it you, Ninon?” I whispered. “Forgive me, my dear; I had forgot to thank you.”
“Oh, it is not that, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “It is not that!”
“Here, sit beside me,” I said. “Let me put my arm around you—so. Now, tell me what it is.”
She was silent a moment, and I could feel her little body quivering.
“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered at last, “I heard all that Mère Fouchon said this afternoon,” and I raised my hand to her face to find it wet with tears.
“Well,” I said, “what then, Ninon?”
“And do you love her so very much, this Nanette?”