"Yes, my poor mother was not happy. My father died on the very day of my birth, and nothing was ever able to console her. She used to cry a great deal. I still possess a little handkerchief with which I used to dry her tears at that time."
"A little handkerchief with a pink pattern."
"What!" she exclaimed, seized with surprise. "You know . . ."
"I was there one day when you were comforting her. . . . And you comforted her so prettily that the scene remained impressed on my memory."
She gave him a penetrating glance and murmured, almost to herself:
"Yes, yes. . . . I seem to . . . The expression of your eyes . . . and then the sound of your voice. . . ."
She lowered her eyelids for a moment and reflected as if she were vainly trying to bring back a recollection that escaped her. And she continued:
"Then you knew her?"
"I had some friends living near Aspremont and used to meet her at their house. The last time I saw her, she seemed to me sadder still . . . paler . . . and, when I came back again . . ."
"It was all over, was it not?" said Geneviève. "Yes, she went very quickly . . . in a few weeks . . . and I was left alone with neighbors who sat up with her . . . and one morning they took her away. . . . And, on the evening of that day, some one came, while I was asleep, and lifted me up and wrapped me in blankets. . . ."