The messenger followed Elina into the apartment, and she showed him the little room which she occupied.
"That's all the furniture I have," she said; "a cot-bed, a walnut wardrobe, this little desk, and a chair; but I'm afraid it's too much for a loft. However, I should like to get it all in, if I could; for the wardrobe was my mother's and the little desk my father's, and with those two pieces it seems to me as if I wasn't quite an orphan—as if papa and mamma were still here looking out for me. I think one is so fortunate to have something that used to belong to one's parents. Why, I wouldn't sell those two things for all the gold in the world! And yet, they're old and out of fashion; my aunt said once that the wardrobe wasn't good for anything but firewood. Oh! I was terribly angry that day! and my aunt has never said that again. Burn this wardrobe, in which my mother kept her dresses and all her clothes, and this desk that my father wrote on every day—never! never! And even if I should ever be rich, I should think just as much of them, and I would never part with them."
Tears stood in Elina's eyes when she finished. Paul looked at her with emotion, lovingly; she seemed to him prettier than ever, for laudable sentiments have a way of embellishing those who are inspired by them, whereas evil sentiments change and distort the prettiest face. Women do not regard their own interests when they are angry, sulky, or jealous.
"You are quite right, mademoiselle," said Paul, with a sigh; "you must be very happy to have something that comes from your parents."
"Have you lost yours, Monsieur Paul?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"A long while ago?"
"Yes."
"Didn't they leave you anything that had belonged to them?"
"No, mademoiselle—nothing."