"No."
"You are not a widow, I hope, my poor little Francine?"
"No." She blushed, as if she had not been pretty enough before.
"They call you madame, you see."
"A mistress of a hotel, that is the usual title. Is it not the custom among the Indians of America?"
"The godmother who took care of you—you perceive how well I know your biography, my child—is she dead, then?"
"No, thank Heaven! She is quite well."
"She is doubtless now living in Carlsruhe?"
"No, at Brussels."
"Then why are you here? why have you quitted so kind a friend?"