Louis understood it all, however, from the chance meeting of Mariette with his father, to the stratagem of the latter to deceive them both. This abuse of confidence overwhelmed him with such grief and shame, that he dared not admit the tie of relationship existing between himself and the public scribe, but sought another plausible explanation of this deceit and treachery.
"Notwithstanding his apparent good nature and benevolence, this old
rascal must have been trying to amuse himself at your expense, my poor
Mariette," said the young man. "He read you just the contrary of what
I had written."
"Oh! how could he be so cruel!" cried the girl, clasping her two hands together. "He appeared so good, and expressed his sympathy so kindly for poor creatures like me, who can neither read nor write."
"One thing is evident, my dear Mariette, he certainly deceived you."
"But did you receive my letter at Dreux?"
"It must have reached that city after I had left it," he said, unwilling to admit that it had been addressed to Paris. "But never mind it now," he added, anxious to drop a conversation which pained him so deeply; "we are happy and—"
"Yes, you are happy enough," put in Mme. Lacombe, "but what about me?"
"What do you mean, godmother?" asked Mariette.
"I mean that I will never consent to such a marriage," she said harshly.
"But my dear madame—" began Louis.