"Well! and that handkerchief——"
"It was given to me to-day; here it is—would you like to look at it, madame?"
With a trembling hand Violette held out the handkerchief to the woman whom a secret voice told her was her mother. Madame de Grangeville took it without turning her head, and examined it a moment; only a glance was necessary for her to recognize it; but she had already ceased to doubt that Violette was her daughter, and although she had been reflecting in silence for some moments, it was only to consider whether she should confess to the young flower girl that she was her mother. After some moments' reflection, she said to herself that there was no reason why she should recognize as her daughter a little flower girl, whose presence in her house would constantly embarrass her and incommode her, and would necessarily let everyone know that she was over thirty-five years old.
Violette, who was waiting, hoping, hardly breathing while Madame de Grangeville held the handkerchief in her hands, said to her at last:
"Well, madame—that handkerchief——"
"It is very handsome, mademoiselle, and beautifully embroidered."
As she spoke, the lady handed the handkerchief back to her; the girl could not make up her mind to take it, but said in a faltering tone:
"Has madame—nothing else—to say to me?"
"Why, mademoiselle, what do you suppose that I can have to say to you?"
"I beg pardon; but I was led to hope—that madame—that madame knew—my mother, and that——"