"Who are you? Pray tell me!"
"I am the son of the Comte de ——"
Thérèse restrained a cry, and her first impulse was to spurn the child; but suddenly she was struck by his resemblance to a face she had recently painted, looking at it in a mirror, in order to send it to her mother; and that face was her own.
"Wait!" she cried, taking the boy in her arms with a convulsive movement. "What is your name?"
"Manuel."
"Oh! Mon Dieu! who is your mother?"
"She is—I was told not to tell you right away! My mother used to be the Comtesse de ——, at Havana; she didn't love me, and she used often to say to me: 'You are not my son, I am not obliged to love you.'—But my papa loved me, and he often said to me: 'You are all mine, you haven't any mother.'—Then he died a year and a half ago, and the countess said: 'You belong to me and you are going to stay with me.'—That was because my father left her some money on condition that I should always be known as their son. But she didn't love me any better, and I was very unhappy with her, when a gentleman from the United States, whose name is Monsieur Richard Palmer, came all of a sudden and asked for me. The countess said: 'No, I am not willing.'—Then Monsieur Palmer said to me: 'Do you want me to take you to your real mother, who thinks you are dead, and who will be very happy to see you again?'—I said: 'Yes, indeed I do!' Then Monsieur Palmer came at night in a boat, because we lived on the sea-shore, and I got up very softly, very softly, and we sailed together to a big ship, and then we crossed the great ocean, and here we are."
"Here you are!" said Thérèse, who held the child close to her heart, and, trembling with frantic joy, enveloped him in a single, fervent kiss while he was speaking; "where is Palmer?"
"I don't know," said the child. "He brought me to the door, and told me to ring; then I didn't see him again."
"Let us look for him," said Thérèse, rising; "he cannot be far away!"