"Speak, my child."
"If I have any other letters to write, it would be almost impossible for me to apply to any one but you, monsieur."
"I shall be at your service."
"But this is not all, monsieur. My godmother is as I am. She can neither read nor write. I had a friend I could depend upon, but she is out of town. In case I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you be kind enough to read it to me?"
"Certainly, my child. I will read your letters to you with pleasure. Bring them all to me," replied the old man, with much inward gratification. "It is I who should thank you for the confidence you manifest in me. I hope I shall soon see you again, and that you leave here much more easy in mind than when you came."
"I certainly could not expect such kindness as you have shown me from any one else."
"Farewell, then, my child, and be sure that you consider me your reader and secretary henceforth. It really seems as if we must have known each other a dozen years."
"That is true, monsieur. Au revoir."
"Au revoir, my child."
Mariette had hardly left the booth when a postman appeared in the doorway, and holding out a letter to the old scrivener, said, cordially: