"He's a liar!" cried the girl, with a flash of her former spirit.
"He is my father!" said Jean, scarcely able to repress his tears.
"Ah! mon Dieu!"
She slipped down at his knees and covered his hand with kisses.
"He cannot know!—he cannot know!" she said, consoling him. "He has only read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, mon ami!"
"Well!" sighed the young man,—"let us see,—a telegram? I hadn't noticed that. There can be nothing worse than what one's father can write his son."
He read in silence, then passed it to her with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Monsieur de Beauchamp!" she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"'Come to Brussels at once.'"