Octave moved away, and he heard them exchange a few words in a low voice.
“Will she come?”
“No; what is the good? and, above all, do not worry yourself.”
“You declared to me that she would come.”
“Well! yes; she is coming. Are you pleased? It is for your sake that I have done it.”
They took their seats at the table. During the whole of dinnertime they talked of the English language, which little Angèle had been learning for a fortnight past.
They were taking their dessert, when a ring at the bell caused Madame Campardon to start.
“It is madame’s cousin,” Lisa returned and said, in the wounded tone of a servant whom one has omitted to let into a family secret.
And it was indeed Gasparine who entered. She wore a black woolen dress, looking very quiet, with her thin face, and her air of a poor shop-girl. Rose, tenderly enveloped in her dressing-gown of cream-color silk, and plump and fresh, rose up so moved that tears filled her eyes.
“Ah! my dear,” murmured she, “you are good. We will forget everything; will we not?”