“Oh, as if we were not bad enough already, here are visitors!” cried Reine. And even Herbert seemed to listen, irritated by the unexpected commotion. Then followed the sound of loud voices, and a confused colloquy. “I must go and receive them, whoever it is,” said Reine, with a moan over her fate. After awhile steps were heard approaching, and the door was thrown open suddenly. “Not here, not here,” cried Reine, running forward. “The drawing-room, Stevens.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Stevens, flushed and angry. “It ain’t my fault. I can’t help it. They won’t be kep’ back, Miss Reine,” he cried, bending his head down over her. “Don’t be frightened. It’s the hold foreign gent—”
“Not here,” cried Reine again. “Oh, whom did you say? Stevens, I tell you not here.”
“But he is here; the hold foreign gent,” said Stevens, who seemed to be suddenly pulled back from behind by somebody following him. If there had been any laughter in her, I think Reine would have laughed; but though the impulse gleamed across her distracted mind, the power was wanting. And there suddenly appeared, facing her, in the place of Stevens, two people, who took from poor Reine all inclination to laugh. One of them was an old man, spruce and dapper, in the elaborate travelling wraps of a foreigner, of the bourgeois class, with a comforter tied round his neck, and a large great coat with a hood to it. The other was a young woman, fair and full, with cheeks momentarily paled by weariness and agitation, but now and then dyed deep with rosy color. These two came to a momentary stop in their eager career, to gaze at Reine, but finally pushing past her, to her great amazement, got before her into the room which she had been defending from them.
“I seek Madame Suzanne! I seek the lady!” said the old man.
At the sound of his voice Giovanna sprang to her feet; and as soon as they got sight of her, the two strangers made a startled pause. Then the young woman rushed forward and laid hold of her by the arm.
“Mon bébé! mon enfant! donne-moi mon bébé!” she said.
“Eh bien, Gertrude! c’est toi!” cried Giovanna. She was roused in a moment from the quiescent state, sullen or stupefied, in which she had been. She seemed to rise full of sudden energy and new life. “And the bon papa, too! Tiens, this is something of extraordinary; but, unhappily, Madame Suzanne has just left us, she is not here. Suffer me to present to you my beau-père, M. Herbert; my belle-sœur Gertrude, of whom you have just heard. Give yourself the trouble to sit down, my parents. This is a pleasure very unattended. Had Madame Suzanne known—she talked of you toute à l’heure—no doubt she would have stayed—”
“Giovanna,” cried the old man, trembling, “you know, you must know, why we are here. Content this poor child, and restore to her her baby. Ah, traître! her baby, not thine. How could I be so blind—how could I be so foolish, and you so criminal, Giovanna? Your poor belle-mère has been ill, has been at the point of death, and she has told us all.”
“Mon enfant!” cried the young woman, clasping her hands. “My bébé, Giovanna; give me my bébé, and I pardon thee all.”