Chérubin smiled at Jasmin’s perspicacity, and went down at once to Louise.
The girl wept and hid her face on her lover’s breast; but Chérubin said to her in the tone which speaks true love and which reaches a woman’s heart so quickly:
“Why should you regret having made me happy, when I propose to employ my whole life hereafter to make you happy? We will never part, you will be my faithful companion, my beloved wife.”
“No,” replied Louise, weeping, “you are rich and of noble birth, and you cannot marry a poor girl without father or mother. I shall love you as long as I live, but I cannot be your wife; for perhaps a day would come when you would be sorry that you had given me that title, and then I should be too wretched.”
“Never! and it is very wicked of you to have any such idea!—But there’s the letter that you are to deliver to Monfréville—that should inform you who your parents are. I will throw myself at their feet, and they will have to consent to my becoming your husband.”
Louise sighed and hung her head.
“But am I worthy now to find my parents?” she replied. “It seems to me that I no longer dare to deliver the letter to that gentleman; perhaps I should do better to destroy it.”
Chérubin succeeded in allaying her fears; he decided to write to his friend and to send him the letter that the young woman dared not carry to him. So he at once wrote Monfréville the following letter:
“My dear friend:
“I have found my Louise; she is an angel who will embellish my life. She cannot be another’s now, for she is mine. O my dear Monfréville, I am the happiest of men, and I was not frightened this time. But then, I have never loved other women, and I adore this one.