"Her child is here. Marie is her child; she has no other, since Prince Olsdorf has taken Tekla from her. Ah! how I hate that man! May God never bring me face to face with him! In deserting her home, Madame Meyrin has left me free. I shall use my liberty, I swear. She may come back when she likes. Perhaps, then, I shall be far away."
"And your daughter?"
"My daughter? You will be in the place of a mother to her until her mother, who ought never to have left her, returns."
"Oh, Monsieur Meyrin! Come, kiss her."
She had lifted up the little girl, who was smiling at her father.
Paul just touched the child with his lips, and went away hurriedly, as if afraid of yielding to Mme. Daubrel's prayers.
At about this time, exhausted by a two days' agonizing journey, Mme. Meyrin was taking her seat at Mittau in the carriage that her mother had sent to meet her at this station on the line from Berlin to St. Petersburg.
The driver, an old servant at the château, whom she recognized and hastened to question, had no better news of her son. The young Prince Alexander was still in danger.
The eight leagues from Mittau to Pampeln seemed endless to the poor woman. Her burning eyes fixed on the horses galloping along the road, she prayed God that she might not be too late. At last, within three hours' time, she saw the imposing mass of the château; and soon, covered with foam, dripping with sweat, quivering, the horses were pulled up before the main entrance.
Lise sprung out, and cried to her mother, who awaited her at the top of the flight of marble steps: