"No, he hid his face better and he did not speak a single word to me. . . . Nevertheless, I have always believed him to be the same one . . . for I remember the same solicitude, the same attentive, careful movements. . . ."
"And after that?"
"After that, came oblivion, sleep, as before. . . . This time, I was ill, it appears; I was feverish. . . . And I woke in a bright, cheerful room. A white-haired lady was bending over me and smiling. It was grandmother . . . and the room was the one in which I now sleep upstairs."
She had resumed her happy face, her sweet, radiant expression; and she ended, with a smile:
"That was how she became my grandmother and how, after a few trials, the little Aspremont girl now knows the delights of a peaceful life and teaches grammar and arithmetic to little girls who are either naughty or lazy . . . but who are all fond of her."
She spoke cheerfully, in a tone at once thoughtful and gay, and it was obvious that she possessed a reasonable, well-balanced mind. Sernine listened to her with growing surprise and without trying to conceal his agitation:
"Have you never heard speak of that man since?" he asked.
"Never."
"And would you be glad to see him again?"
"Oh, very glad."