"What is it, dear Joseph?" I asked; and when he could answer nothing on account of his emotion, I rose, crying:
"More bad news? What has happened to my nurse-mother? Speak, speak, Joseph!"
"Nothing, Mme. la Viscomtesse," he replied. "My mother and Bastien, I hope, are well. It is of myself I wish to speak."
Then my heart made a sad commotion in my bosom, for I thought he was about to speak of love. But not at all. He began again, in a low voice:
"I am going to America, madame."
I sprung towards him. "You go away? You go away?" I cried. "And I, Joseph?"
"You, madame?" said he. "You have money. The Revolution will soon be over, and you can return to your country. There you will find again your friends, your titles, your fortune."
"Stop!" I cried. "What shall I be in France? You well know my château, my palace are pillaged and burned, my parents are dead."
"My mother and Bastien are in France," he responded.
"But thou—thou, Joseph; what can I do without thee? Why have you accustomed me to your tenderness, to your protection, and now come threatening to leave me? Hear me plainly. If you go I go with you."