Georget, who passed as quickly from wrath to affection as from sadness to joy, seized Monsieur de Brévanne's hand and squeezed it violently, crying:
"I was wrong to think that you were unkind, I ought to have known that it was impossible. Oh! let me go at once to see her, monsieur, to ask her pardon for thinking her guilty, to tell her that I have never ceased to love her."
"To-day? Why, it is quite late."
"It is only four o'clock, monsieur, and at six I shall be in Paris; at ten o'clock I will be back again. You will let me go, won't you, monsieur?"
"As I made you unhappy, I must make up for it."
"Ah, monsieur!"
"Go; I will tell your mother that I sent you to Paris on an errand; do not come back until to-morrow morning in order not to run the risk of being on the road so late."
"Oh! thanks, monsieur, thanks a thousand times!—Come, Chicotin, let us go."
"But I haven't had a chance to rest or to eat anything!" muttered the young messenger, making a wry face.
"Come, come; I'll treat you to supper."