Louise and Chérubin were still together; they were impatiently awaiting Monfréville’s arrival, and their impatience was blended with a secret fear which they could not clearly define.
At last, Jasmin announced: “Monsieur de Monfréville.”
Louise, deeply agitated, lowered her eyes; Chérubin ran to meet his friend, but stopped short when he saw his serious, even stern, expression, and faltered, offering him his hand:
“Haven’t you received my letter, my friend?”
Monfréville did not touch the hand that Chérubin offered him; he turned his eyes on the girl who stood, trembling, at the farther end of the room; and, as he gazed at her, he felt that his eyes filled with tears. But, struggling to conceal the emotion that he felt, he seated himself a few steps from Louise, who still kept her eyes on the floor, and motioned Chérubin to sit, saying:
“Yes, I have received your letter; and I have read the one from Madame de Noirmont, who tells me that mademoiselle was adopted by the same good woman who nursed you.”
“Well, my friend, is it true that you know Louise’s father, that you can help her to find him? But do you think he will make her happy, that he will not put any obstacles in the way of our love?”
Monfréville glanced at the girl again and said in a faltering voice:
“Yes, I know mademoiselle’s father.”
Louise raised her eyes at that, and looked at Monfréville with a thrill of hope and of filial affection, crying: