“I had news of him this morning, Monsieur, as I have had every day. I know that he is improving; and that, since day before yesterday, he has been allowed to take a little nourishment.”
“You have not forgotten him, then?”
She trembled; a faint blush suffused throat and forehead, but it was in a calm voice that she replied:
“Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”
“And yet you have told him that you approve your father’s decision!”
“I told him so, Monsieur, and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”
“But you have made Maurice wretched, unhappy, child; he has almost died.”
She raised her head proudly, sought M. d’Escorval’s eyes, and when she had found them:
“Look at me, Monsieur. Do you think that I, too, do not suffer?”
M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but recovering himself, he took Marie-Anne’s hand, and pressing it affectionately, he said: