"Yes, indeed, monsieur!" exclaimed the girl, touched by these words.
"To be obliged to address myself to a stranger, to—"
Her eyes filled with tears and she paused in confusion.
"My dear child, pray recover your composure," entreated the scribe. "You need fear neither indiscretion nor ridicule with me. The confidence reposed in me by persons whom chance or misfortune has deprived of the benefits of education, has always been considered as sacred to me."
"Oh! thank you, monsieur; you relieve me of half my grief by understanding and excusing my embarrassment," said Mariette, gratefully. "Oh! yes," she went on with a sigh, "it is very cruel to know neither how to read nor write; but alas! it is not my fault."
"Ah! my poor child, like many others who come to me, it is the want of opportunity, and not the absence of good will, which has deprived you of knowledge. Some are forced to assume the care of younger brothers and sisters while the parents work; others are sent out as apprentices at an early age—"
"I was placed as an apprentice at the age of nine," sighed Mariette, "and until that time I was retained at home to care for a little brother, who died shortly before my parents."
"Poor child, your story is similar to those of your companions that come to me. But why did you not try to gain some education when you had finished your apprenticeship?"
"Where would I find the time, monsieur? I work almost day and night to provide for my godmother and myself—"
"Time, alas! is the bread of the poor!" broke in the old man; "they must starve to death or live in ignorance."
He paused for a moment, then asked with renewed interest: "You speak of your godmother; have you no other relative?"