He alighted from his carriage, crossed the yard where he had played so often, and hastily entered the room on the ground floor, where the family usually sat. Nicole was there, working, and Jacquinot asleep in a chair; nothing was changed; one person only was missing.
Nicole raised her eyes, then gave a shout. She gazed earnestly at the fashionably dressed young man who had entered the room; she was afraid that she was mistaken, she dared not believe that it was Chérubin. But he did not leave her long in uncertainty; he flew into her arms, crying:
“My nurse! my dear Nicole! Ah! how glad I am to see you again!”
“It’s him! it’s really him!” cried the peasant woman, who could hardly speak, she was so overcome by joy. “He has come to see us, so he still loves me, the dear boy! Forgive me for calling you that, monsieur le marquis, but habit is stronger than I am.”
“Call me what you used to call me, dear Nicole. Do you suppose that that offends me? On the contrary, I insist upon it, I demand it.”
“Oh! what joy!—Wake up, Jacquinot, my man, here’s our fieu Chérubin come back, and in our house again.”
Jacquinot rubbed his eyes and recognized the young marquis, but dared not offer him his hand. But Chérubin warmly grasped the peasant’s rough and calloused hand. He, in his delight, ran off, as his custom was, to bring wine and glasses.
Chérubin seated himself beside Nicole; he kissed her again and again, then glanced about the room and said:
“What a pity that someone is missing! If Louise were here, my happiness would be complete. Is she still in Bretagne—a long way off? Doesn’t she mean to return?”
“Oh, yes, my boy,” murmured the peasant woman with evident embarrassment. “But you do still care for us a little bit, my dear child, although you have got used to finer folks than we are?”