"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?"
"Nothing has happened," she answered—but now she looked away from him as she spoke. "I have sold my house there."
"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is it?"
"Nothing!" she said again. "Only—only I could not stay there any longer"—and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the old priest's knees.
"But, Marie-Louise—Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay—and laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head.
She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily.
"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and the new things, and seeing you again—but it is over now." Then, a little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean."
"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed to read the truth in her eyes: "It—it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who has brought you to Paris?"
"Yes," she answered, in a low voice.
The curé's face grew very grave.