Mme. Daubrel was beginning to think that her letters to Prince Olsdorf would remain unanswered; and yet, the very morning that the telegram from Lise's first husband came to hand, her pretty face, usually so sad, betrayed heartfelt joy, great as her uneasiness was as to Mme. Paul Meyrin's health.
The fact was that her mother, Mme. Percier, had come to acquaint her with news, secretly and timidly longed for, and yet unexpected. M. Daubrel had written from New York, that, touched by the life of expiation and the penitence of his wife, he had almost forgiven the past.
At this news Mme. Daubrel threw herself, weeping, into her mother's arms. She was impatient to tell Lise, who loved her so much, of this new-born hope. But she had now something more and better to tell; she had to tell the poor mother that soon she would embrace her children.
However, when Marthe saw Mme. Meyrin, the patient's feebleness was such that she hesitated. She put the case to Dumesnil, who was there, and whom under some flimsy pretext she got into the little room adjoining the bed-chamber.
"People do not die of joy," exclaimed the old artist, having been told the facts. "Let us not lose a moment in giving our dear patient the only hope that can calm her grief a little."
And leading back Mme. Daubrel to Lise, he said to the latter:
"Our friend has good news to tell you, but she won't speak if you do not promise to be calm."
"Good news," said Mme. Meyrin, with the heart-breaking smile that always played about her discolored lips when they sought to console her. "Can there be any for me? The kisses of my children alone lighten my sufferings, and I shall never see them."
Her husband's name did not even occur to her.
"Well, well, perhaps," said Marthe, in her gentlest voice.