“This is what it is; listen. Louise didn’t want me to tell you; but I am very sure that you won’t blame her for it; it isn’t her fault.”
Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said impatiently:
“Come, my child, go on, explain yourself.”
“Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the tea, she found me in mamma’s arms, and we were kissing each other.”
“That is well, my daughter; what next?”
“At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn’t find a fichu that I wanted, I went to Louise’s room to ask her where she had put it. I found her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied, sobbing: ‘Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.’”
“An abandoned child!” murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly became deathly pale.
“But,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, “if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us that the girl’s parents lived in the outskirts of Paris—I don’t remember in what village.”
“Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here; but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise thought it was better to tell the truth.”
“She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you, madame—are not you curious to hear this girl’s story?”