The little girl looked up at Léodgard as if to see whether he was, in fact, going to scold her; and seeing nothing on his features to indicate anger, she pressed still closer to him, laughing aloud—an expression of the frank, unalloyed joy which one never experiences so fully as at that age.
"This little girl is fascinating!" said the count, after kissing the child on the forehead; "how old is she?"
"Nearly two and a half, monsieur."
"Her parents must idolize her?"
"Oh, yes! her mother loves her dearly, monsieur! And if madame had not been a little indisposed for two or three days, she would have taken mademoiselle out to walk as usual!"
"What lovely eyes! they are so soft and intelligent! She is not a naughty girl, I am sure!"
"Oh, no! monsieur, she is very good—so everybody loves her. She is a little mischievous sometimes—as at this moment, when she doesn't want me to catch her.—But it's all in play, isn't it, Mademoiselle Blanche?"
"Blanche! Blanche!" murmured Léodgard, to whose mind that name recalled his conversation with Jarnonville.—"Ah! so the little girl's name is Blanche?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And would it be out of place to ask her mother's name?"