“My dress,” she said to the old nurse, seated beside her; “give me my dress.”
The woman obeyed; with an eager hand Marie-Anne examined the pocket.
She uttered an exclamation of joy on finding the letter there.
She opened it, read it slowly twice, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears.
Maurice anxiously approached her.
“What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously.
She handed him the letter, saying: “Read.”
Chanlouineau was only a poor peasant. His entire education had been derived from an old country pedagogue, whose school he attended for three winters, and who troubled himself much less about the progress of his students than about the size of the books which they carried to and from the school.
This letter, which was written upon the commonest kind of paper, was sealed with a huge wafer, as large as a two-sou piece, which he had purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse.
The chirography was labored, heavy and trembling; it betrayed the stiff hand of a man more accustomed to guiding the plough than the pen.