"In spite of this scrivener's apparent kindness of heart, he must have taken a malicious pleasure in playing a joke upon you, my poor Mariette, for he read you the exact opposite of what I had written."
"How shameful!" cried the girl. "How could he have had the heart to deceive me so? He had such a benevolent air, and spoke so feelingly of the sympathy he always felt for those unfortunate persons who, like myself, could neither read nor write."
"But you can see for yourself that he did deceive you shamefully? Still, what does it matter, now?" added Louis, anxious to put an end to such a painful topic. "We understand each other's feelings now, Mariette, and—"
"One moment," interposed Madame Lacombe; "you may feel satisfied and reassured, Mariette, but I do not."
"What do you mean, godmother?"
"I mean that I strongly disapprove of this marriage."
"But listen, madame," pleaded Louis.
"As you are the son of a public scrivener, you haven't a sou to your name. Mariette hasn't, either, and two people in such circumstances as that have no right to marry. My goddaughter has me to take care of. She would be sure, too, to have a lot of children, and a nice fix we should all be in!"
"But, godmother—"
"Don't talk to me. I know what you intend to do. The first thing you'll try for is to get rid of the old woman. There won't be bread enough for us all, and I shall be turned out into the street to be arrested as a public vagabond. I shall be sent to the workhouse, so you won't be troubled with me any more. Oh, yes, I understand your scheme."