“Your father thinks that I do not love you,” she murmured. “Do you think so too, my love?”
“Oh, no! indeed I don’t, mamma,” cried Ernestine. “But papa doesn’t think so, either; I am sure of it. I know that you love me; and why shouldn’t you? am I not your daughter?”
Madame de Noirmont’s features contracted nervously; her brow darkened, and she hastily extricated herself from Ernestine’s arms. But the cloud soon vanished and she drew the girl to her again, saying in a melancholy tone:
“Oh, yes, yes! I love you dearly!”
“I have never doubted it, mamma, and if you have sometimes—as you had just now, for instance—moments when my caresses seem tiresome to you, I am sure that it’s just because you have a headache, or because you’re thinking about something else; but you don’t love me any less, do you?”
“No, of course I never love you any less. Did the time seem long to you while I was away?”
“Oh! yes, mamma! But luckily I have had a new maid for three weeks. Father must have written you that he discharged the other one, didn’t he?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh! I like the new one ever so much better! If you knew how nice she is! and not a bit stupid, nor vulgar! She speaks very correctly, and yet she came right from her village; she has never lived out, but she learned her duties instantly.”
“Who brought her here?”