Toussaint left the room, and was but too well directed by the countenances of his servants to the room where Génifrède was lying, with her face hidden, upon a sofa. Denis was standing silent at a window which overlooked the Walk. Both were covered with dust from their journey.
Génifrède looked up, on hearing some one enter. When she saw that it was her father, she again buried her face in the cushions, saving only—
“Oh, why did you come?”
“Stay, my child, why did you come? How—why—”
“I always know,” said she, “when misery is near; and where misery is, there am I. Do not be angry with Denis, father. I made him come.”
“I am angry with no one, Génifrède. I am too much grieved to be angry. I am come to take you to Moyse. I cannot see him myself, at present; but I will take you to the door of the salon where he is.”
“The salon!” said Génifrède, as if relieved. She had probably imagined him chained in a cell. This one word appeared to alter the course of her ideas. She glanced at her travel-soiled dress, and hesitated. Her father said—
“I will send a servant to you. Refresh yourself; and in half-an-hour I will come again.”
When he rejoined her, she was still haggard and agitated, but appeared far less wretched than before.
“Génifrède!” cried Moyse, as she entered and leaned against the wall, unable to go farther. “Génifrède! And was not that your father who admitted you? Oh, call him, Génifrède! Call him back! I must see him. If you ask him, he will come. Call him back, Génifrède!”