The young woman, who had followed me in silence, but trembling nervously for a reason which I could well understand, gazed vacantly at the little cenotaph at first; but when she read her daughter's name on the marble, she uttered a cry, fell on her knees as if to thank heaven, then rose again, weeping, threw herself into my arms, and pressed me to her heart, murmuring:
"My friend! my friend! And I was suspicious of you! Oh! forgive me! I love you dearly, now! My daughter is lying there; I can come now and pray upon her grave, and tend and renew the flowers that surround it. Ah! I breathe more freely now; you have given me courage to keep on living."
"I have something else here," I said, taking from my pocket a carefully folded paper, which I handed to Mignonne.
The young woman took the paper, and a flush of joy overspread her face; she covered her daughter's hair with kisses, then threw herself into my arms once more.
"Oh! thanks! thanks, my friend! I have not lost everything; I have something of her! Her soft, fine hair—I have it all, and it will never leave me! Ah! you have almost made me happy! Let me thank you again."
She laid her head on my shoulder and wept profusely; but the tears were soothing and assuaged her grief.
Then she knelt beside the gravestone. I walked away in order not to disturb her meditation and her prayers.
At last, after spending a long time beside her daughter, Mignonne returned to me; but she was no longer the same woman as when she left her room. Her sombre grief, her wild glance, had given place to an expression of pious melancholy and placid resignation.
I took her back to her home; on the way, I tried, not to combat her regrets, but to make her understand that the most unhappy of mankind are not those who are taken away from this world.
When we returned, Madame Potrelle looked at us, and was surprised beyond words at the change that had taken place in her tenant; but she dared not question us. Mignonne ran to the good woman and kissed her.