"Forgive me, brother, I beseech you; forgive me!"
That sweet voice reached the lowest depths of the messenger's heart; he raised his sister and drew her to him, saying:
"But how can it have happened? Come, tell me the whole story; don't keep anything from me, for I must know all!"
Adeline sat on her brother's knee, and said in a faltering tone:
"Yes, I will tell you how it happened; you know that I never lie."—Then, with an intonation of the voice and a simplicity of language as ingenuous as her features, she told her story as follows:
"The last time that you came home to see father, I was, as you know, living with a rich lady who had taken a fancy to me and treated me as her daughter. Father gave his consent, for he thought the education I should receive with her might be of use to me some day. So I was at Clermont, with my patroness. She made me work hard—reading, and studying music; but I often regretted our little cottage, brother, where I could run and jump about and play when I pleased; while in my patroness's salon I always had to be neatly dressed, to stand very straight, and to give up all the games I had enjoyed in my childhood; in fact, Étienne, if I must admit it, I was sometimes depressed and often bored; but I dared not say so, for fear of seeming ungrateful. My greatest happiness was to sit at a window looking on the road; for from there I could see the fields and our village and our mountains; and as I worked at my embroidery, I often looked with a sigh in the direction of our cottage.
"About five weeks ago, while I was at the window, I saw a young man ride by. He looked at me; I turned my eyes away, but I thought I could see that he bowed to me. The next day, he passed again and looked up again; and as I was sure that he bowed to me that time, I thought that it was courteous to do as much. Several days in succession he rode by; I was always at the window, always looking toward our village, but I knew very well when the young man was there. The window was not very far from the ground; he rode near and said a few words to me, which I didn't listen to the first day, but which I answered on the second. In short—I don't know how it happened, but, before long, Monsieur Albert—he was the young man on horseback—told me that he loved me, and I confessed that I loved him too. Ah! brother, if you knew how happy he looked when I told him that; he declared that he couldn't live without me, and I urged him to go to the village to see father and ask his permission to marry me. The next day, he came with a very downcast air, and told me that he had seen father, who had refused his consent to our marriage; then I told him to see my patroness, but he said that she had other projects for me; that he knew that she intended to marry me to a very rich old gentleman whom she expected at Clermont any day. At that I wept, but Albert said to me: 'There's only one way for us to avoid being parted; that is, for you to consent to come to Paris with me; we will be married at once, and then our parents will have to forgive us.'—I refused at first; but he begged so hard, swearing that I should surely be his wife, and there was so much love in his eyes and in my heart, that I ended by giving way.—'I will take you to Paris,' he said; 'and when we are married, I'll write to your father to join us there.'—Then I thought of you, and I said: 'I have a brother in Paris, his name's Étienne, and he's a fine fellow;'—but—I mustn't lie to you—I didn't tell him you were a messenger, for at my patroness's they seemed to laugh at men who followed that calling. I said that you were learning to make money, but that I didn't know how, and Albert answered: 'We will find your brother, and I will love him too.'—Well—so I allowed him to carry me off, to bring me to Paris; I did whatever Albert wanted me to do. Forgive me, Étienne; it was very wicked, I know. But Albert is an honorable man; he will marry me, because he has promised to; I shall be his wife, and then father will forgive me, too, won't he?"
Sans-Cravate listened in gloomy and depressed silence to his sister's story; when she ceased to speak, he sat for some time, absorbed in his grief, and seemed to be waiting for her to say something more. But he suddenly pushed her away, sprang to his feet, and began to pace the floor, crying:
"So this is how these fine young men behave, whose errands we do for them! Ah! I deserve what has happened; yes, I have been doing wrong for a long time, I too am becoming a ne'er-do-well, I allow myself to be tempted to gamble and drink, and I forget my old home, and my father and family! And now, this fine gentleman who pays me so generously, this excellent customer who is always so free with his money, gives me another big fee—and for what? to help him hide my sister, whom he has abducted and dishonored! Ah! crédié! my hands itch!"
"Oh! brother, don't be angry. Perhaps Albert doesn't know that you are my brother."