"Of Nantes," repeated Lerouge.
"And this is Andrée,—bless your sweet face!—and—and,"—turning a quizzical look on the wondering Jean,—"and 'the woman'!"
It was now Lerouge's turn to be astonished. Jean and the girl attempted to conceal their rising color by casting their eyes upon the floor. Marot père was master of the situation.
"Your father was a noted surgeon," he continued, still holding the girl's hand.
"One of the best of his time," said Henri, proudly.
"And your mother——"
"Is dead, monsieur."
"Ah!"
The look of pain that passed swiftly over M. Marot's face was reflected in an audible sigh.
"One of the best of women," he went on, musingly,—"and you are the living image of your mother when I last saw her. Her name, too——"