“I have none,” he answered, promptly. Then his own face flushed, and after an instant’s hesitation, he added: “But I entertain the most profound and reverent love for a young girl, the most beautiful and chaste being on earth—a girl who, in intelligence and heart, is worthy of you, my own mother.”
Madame Ferailleur nodded her head gravely, as much as to say that she had expected to find a woman at the bottom of the mystery. “And who is this young girl?” she inquired. “What is her name?”
“Marguerite.”
“Marguerite who?”
Pascal’s embarrassment increased. “She has no other name,” he replied, hurriedly, “and she does not know her parents. She formerly lived in our street with her companion, Madame Leon, and an old female servant. It was there that I saw her for the first time. She now lives in the house of the Count de Chalusse, in the Rue de Courcelles.”
“In what capacity?”
“The count has always taken care of her—she owes her education to him. He acts as her guardian; and although she has never spoken to me on the subject, I fancy that the Count de Chalusse is her father.”
“And does this girl love you, Pascal?”
“I believe so, mother. She has promised me that she will have no other husband than myself.”
“And the count?”