"Yes, M. Rudolph. And is Madame George, who allowed me to call her mother, well?"
"Very well, my child. But I have important news to tell you."
"Me, M. Ruldoph?"
"Since I have seen you, great discoveries have been made concerning your birth."
"My birth!"
"It is known who were your parents—who was your father."
Rudolph was so much choked by his tears on his pronouncing these words, that Fleur-de-Marie, very much affected, turned quickly toward him: he had turned away his head. An incident, half burlesque, diverted the attention of La Goualeuse, and prevented her from remarking more closely the emotion of her father: the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, and, apparently was very attentively looking into the garden of the hotel, could not refrain from blowing his nose with a most formidable noise, for he wept like a child.
"Yes, my dear Marie," Clémence hastened to say, "your father is known—he still lives."
"My father!" cried the Goualeuse, with an outburst which put the composure of Rudolph to a new trial.
"And some day," resumed Clémence, "very soon, perhaps, you will see him. What will doubtless surprise you very much is, that he is of high standing—noble birth."