That was what Agathe said to herself, and yet she dared not ask Honorine to reveal that secret, for she was reluctant to offend even her mother's shade.
"As she did not confide it to me while she was alive," thought the girl, "perhaps it is not right for me to try to learn it now that she is no more."
But one evening, after a long conversation between the two friends, in which they had talked about the strange disappearance of Agathe's father, the girl exclaimed:
"If I only owned something that belonged to my father! I have many things that my mother possessed, which I treasure beyond words; but I have nothing of my father's, absolutely nothing! that is very cruel."
"But suppose I should tell you," rejoined Honorine, "that I have something of your father's to give you—something which your poor mother gave me to keep until I should give it to you?"
"Mon Dieu! is it possible? you have something that belonged to my father, and you have not given it to me in all the time since my mother died? Oh! Honorine, then you did not want to make me very happy!"
"My dear Agathe, when I give you this object which was confided to me, I must also tell you the secret which your mother dreaded to tell you—because she did not wish to blush before you."
"Blush before me!—my dear mother!—why, that is absurd! Come, speak, Honorine, speak; do not conceal anything from me now."
"I will speak; indeed, it seems to me necessary that you should know the truth, that you should learn your father's name at last; otherwise you might stand by his side some day, and not know it."
"My father's name! Why, his name was Montoni, of course, as my mother's was Madame Montoni."