"Signed, Mariette Moreau," said the old man, writing the name as he spoke.
Then, having folded the letter, he asked, concealing the secret anxiety with which he awaited the girl's reply:
"To whom is this letter to be addressed, my child?"
"To M. Louis Richard. General delivery, Dreux."
"I thought as much," secretly groaned the old man, as he prepared to write the address Mariette had just given him.
If the young girl had not been so deeply preoccupied she could hardly have failed to notice the change in the expression of the scrivener's face,—a change which became still more noticeable when he discovered for a certainty for whom this missive was intended. It was with a look of positive anger now that he furtively watched Mariette, and he seemed unable to make up his mind to write the address she had just given him, for after having written upon the envelope the words, "To Monsieur," he dropped his pen, and said to his client, forcing a smile in order to conceal alike his resentment and his apprehensions:
"Now, my child, though this is the first time we ever saw each other, it seems to me you feel you can trust me a little already."
"That is true, monsieur. Before I came here, I feared I should not have the courage to dictate my letter to an entire stranger, but your manner was so kind that I soon got over my embarrassment."
"I certainly see no reason why you should feel the slightest embarrassment. If I were your own father, I could not find a word of fault with the letter you have just written to—to M. Louis, and if I were not afraid of abusing the confidence you say that you have in me, I should ask—but no, that would be too inquisitive."
"You would ask me what, monsieur?"