Madame de Noirmont was seated, her head fallen forward on her breast. She did not raise her eyes when she heard the door open, for she had no doubt that it was Ernestine; and Louise reached her side and handed her the book without daring to utter a word.
But at that moment, impelled by an outburst of maternal affection, she took the hand that offered the book and squeezed it in her own, murmuring:
“My poor love, you must have thought me most unjust to you of late, and you think perhaps that I no longer love you! Do not think that, my child; I still love you as dearly as I ever did; but you cannot understand what is taking place in my heart, and what I suffer. No, you will never know——”
At that moment she raised her head and drew the girl toward her, meaning to kiss her. Not until then did she recognize Louise. She was speechless and motionless with surprise; a terrified expression appeared on her face, from which all the blood receded, and she raised her eyes to heaven, faltering:
“O mon Dieu! and I called her my child!”
“Forgive me, madame, forgive me,” murmured Louise, terribly alarmed at her mistress’s condition. “It was not my fault, it was mademoiselle who sent——”
Madame de Noirmont struggled to master her emotion, and rejoined in a sharp, stern tone:
“Why did you come into my room? Did I call you? Why are you here? To try to surprise my thoughts, my secrets?”
“O madame—mon Dieu! can you believe it?”
“Have I not constantly found your eyes fastened on me of late, mademoiselle—following, watching my slightest movements? What makes you act so? Have you some hidden motive? Come, speak, mademoiselle.”