Mollie flushed and smiled as he called her a "heroine." The word always thrilled her—as she once told her father. It was like a strain of music in her ears.
"Please, monsieur, do not speak of any return for what was simply a humane act," she gently returned; "I am more than recompensed in knowing that your dear little grandchild escaped unhurt. And how is poor Nannette to-day? She was greatly frightened and distressed, and I felt very sorry for her."
A frown darkened Monsieur Lamonti's face, and his eyes flashed with sudden anger at the mention of the bonne.
"Nannette shall go away—I will not trust my beautiful one with her ever again," he said sternly. "Ah! if she had been killed! Mon Dieu! I tell you I could not have survived; she is all I have, mademoiselle, the only child of my only daughter—ah! but I cannot talk of it," he concluded brokenly, and trembling visibly.
"But, monsieur, it is all over—she is safe, and let us rejoice that all is well," soothingly replied Mollie. "And I am sure," she added confidently, "that Nannette will be very careful in the future. This will be a lesson to her, and I would have far more confidence in her now than in a strange maid. She seemed like a good girl and very fond of the little one, while she bewailed her carelessness with sincere sorrow."
"There is truth in what you say," the gentleman returned, after a moment of thought. "Nannette has been a good girl—she is faithful, as a rule, and Lucille loves her. I shall consider what you have said, mademoiselle, and Nannette will have cause to be grateful to you."
"Thank you. I should feel sorry to have her lose her situation; at the same time I can understand your anxiety, and she should be required to promise to be very careful in the future."
Mollie and her caller drifted to other subjects after that and chatted of many things—of Europe in general, of Paris in particular. Monsieur Lamonti was charmed with the beautiful girl, while she was no less delighted with his courtly manner, his culture and brilliant conversation, and was sincerely sorry when he arose to take his leave.
"Adieu, mademoiselle," he said, holding out his slim, aristocratic hand; "it is a great pleasure to have met you—you know my country so well; you speak my language so beautifully; while, for yesterday, I shall always cherish you in most grateful remembrance. Ah! but to me that is like sounding brass," he interposed, with a dissatisfied shrug of his shoulders and in a regretful tone. Then, as his keen eyes swept the graceful figure in its simple cambric dress, he added: "Is mademoiselle sure that I cannot serve her in any way?"
Mollie glanced up quickly at him, as a thought suddenly flashed through her mind, and a bright flush suffused her face as she asked herself if she dare put the thought into words. There was something his expressive face, in the sincerity of his speech and his refinement and courtesy, that inspired her with confidence in him.