"Harken, mon Alphonse," she said. "I will go myself and see whether the automobile has yet returned."
"Ah, do, my Ninon," replied the Comte. "Thou, at least, hast always been faithful and true—faithful, loving and true. I trust thee to the uttermost."
The poor woman staggered out of the room. She was met by little Margot, who was standing in the passage, and whose face was the colour of a white sheet. Her deep, dark eyes were full of untold misery.
"Belle grand'mère," she began—but grand'mère had no words to express her feelings. She pointed to the door where the sick man lay.
"Thou mayst save him. Thou hast my permission," she said in the lowest whisper; and little Margot with her gentle step entered the darkened room.
She knew at once that it was a trifle too hot. She opened wide one of the French windows; she let in the soft air, which, winter-time as it was in most places, felt like summer here. The old man breathed more easily. He turned on his pillow. He opened his eyes, so very sunken in his head, but they lit up with a joy beyond expression when he saw little Margot.
"Ah, I am weak, mon enfant," he said. "But thou hast come, ma petite. Put thy little hand on mine. There is life in thy little hand; lay it on mine. Ah, ma petite, how greatly do I love thee."
"And I thee, mon grandpère," cried Margot.
"Tell me," said the Comte, after a few minutes' silence, during which Margot had fed him with some of the doctor's restorative—"tell me what thou didst do at the établissement to-day. Didst thou buy a chapeau?—didst thou watch the little wonder as she sold chapeaux and robes for Madame Marcelle?"