One day the little fellow fixed his blue eyes, full of candor, on her face, and added:
"Baby Dick."
"His name is Richard, then," said Amélie. "This is some information gained," and with that much she had to content herself. The child had either forgotten or did not know his family name. Of his father he remembered nothing; of his mother he knew that she lived in a cottage near the beach, amid many flowers and with a large dog, as large as Silvano. Amélie began to think that he was a child born out of wedlock and she felt for him a greater attachment than ever. From the first moment of being with her, he had called her "Mamma." Her eyes would fill with tears as she placed him at night in his little bed and clasped his tiny hands in prayer. "He has no mother but me," she would say with trembling lips.
One afternoon Louis Pierre read aloud to her from Rousseau's Emile while she held Baby Dick on her knees. Suddenly Jean Vilon appeared.
"A man has just arrived," he said "bringing my master's watch-word. He came by the road of Saint Brieuc. Shall I open to him?"
Louis exchanged a lightning glance with Amélie.
"Is he dark, handsome, with curly black hair and in sailor's clothes?" she asked.
"Yes, and he seems very tired."
"Bring him through the subterranean passage, no matter how great is his fatigue. The servants must not see a stranger enter."
Jean Vilon withdrew, and it was night when, almost fainting with exhaustion, and covered with dust, Giacinto appeared before them. Amélie ordered Vilon to retire. There was no need to ask questions. The Italian's face, with terrible eloquence, revealed the truth. Nevertheless Louis Pierre inquired: