"Excuse me, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "it's the messenger who moved you."
The young woman turned, and disclosed a face, which, although very pale, was fascinating in its sweetness and simplicity. It was an assemblage of charming features: eyes of a blue as pure as a cloudless sky, and shaded by long, jet-black lashes; a small, well-proportioned nose; a tiny mouth with even, white teeth; and, lastly, imparting an infinite charm to the whole face, a something artless and touching—something which denoted that its possessor did not know how to lie.
Sans-Cravate gazed at the young woman, and stood as if rooted to the floor, unable, afraid, to believe his eyes. At last he stepped forward, then stopped, looked at her again, and muttered:
"Oh! my God! is it possible? is it a dream? But, no—I am mistaken—it cannot be her!"
But the girl, who had begun to tremble as she looked at Sans-Cravate, and whose eyes had filled with tears, suddenly ran forward and threw herself into the messenger's arms.
"Brother! can it be you? Mon Dieu! aren't you willing to recognize me?"
"My own sister! my Liline!" cried Sans-Cravate, taking the girl's head in his hands, and covering her face with kisses; "so it is really you!"
But the joyous expression of his face came and went like a lightning flash. He let his arms fall, stepped away from the girl, and continued with an accent of utter despair:
"My sister here in Paris—with Monsieur Albert! My sister abducted—and ruined, of course! O my God! our poor father!"
And Sans-Cravate sank upon a chair; he could not speak, he could not see; his forehead was burning, he was completely crushed by his grief. But his sister went to him again, she held out her arms to him, knelt at his feet, and said in a tone that went to his heart: