"I know it; but what will you, child," she said, softened in spite of herself. "It was the fear of starving in the streets, the fear of seeing you unhappily married that suggested the idea of a pension to me. I know that I have no right to expect such a thing, but one can never imagine what terror is inspired by the thought of being cast into the streets penniless, old and infirm as I am!—All I want is a poor mattress in a corner, a crust of bread, and the sight of Mariette's sweet face. I am so accustomed to see her come and go in this wretched room, that if she were not there I would think myself shut up in a dark tomb. And besides, she is the only person in the world who could be kind to me—all I ask is to remain with Mariette. That pile of gold dazzled me for a moment, but then it humiliated me too in my heart. One may be but a worm, and yet have some pride—and yet, when that man offered me gold for Mariette the other day, I was not humiliated—I was only furious. But now, here I am weeping; and Mariette knows I have not shed a tear for the last ten years. Bitterness may eat away the heart, but it does not melt it."
"These tears will do you good, godmother," said Mariette gently.
"Have confidence in the future, madame," added Louis, consolingly. "Mariette will never leave you. We shall not live in luxury, but in modest comfort; and Mariette shall continue to love you as a mother, while I shall love you as a dutiful son."
"Are you really in earnest? do you really mean to keep me with you?" she asked, gazing earnestly into their faces, as though she would read their inmost thoughts.
At this new proof of invincible distrust, the young people exchanged a look of compassion; then, taking the sick woman's hand in hers, Mariette said tenderly: "Yes, dear godmother, we shall keep you always with us, and nurse you as we would our own mother; you shall see how happy we shall make life to you—"
"Yes, we shall make your life a dream of happiness," added Louis, affectionately.
The voice, accent, expression and earnestness of the two young people would have convinced the most skeptic; but alas! an absolute, complete belief in sudden happiness could not penetrate this poor soul so long corroded by suffering.
"I believe you, my children," she said, with a suppressed sigh, trying to hide her involuntary doubt. "Yes, I believe Monsieur Louis has the money; I believe that you both feel some affection for me, also—but you know, a new broom sweeps clean! People are willing enough at first, but things change with time. Besides, I may be in the way; newly married people love to be alone, and an old grumbler like me spoils the beauty of a cozy house. You will be afraid of my sharp words, grow weary of me, or—"
"Ah! godmother, do you still doubt us?" cried Mariette, reproachfully.
"You must forgive me, my children, but it is stronger than myself," rejoined the unhappy woman, bursting into sobs. "But then," she added, with a forced smile, "it may be better so; for if I were to suddenly believe in happiness, after more than fifty years of sorrow and misery, I would surely go mad. And upon my word, it would not surprise me," she concluded bitterly, "it would be just my luck."