“I would write to him that I love him,” she cried, clasping her hands; “and I would beg him to come and tell me that he pardons me, and take his place again at home; for the house will always be his, whether I live or die; and although I have done very wrong, he would listen to me, don't you think so, father?”
“Yes,” said the curé, much touched; “he is a person who never cherished rancor against any one. Write to him, my child, and tell him all you wish; your letter will reach him.”
“Ah! you know where he is? I thought so,” said she joyfully.
“Yes, indeed! I know where he is, and I will now tell you, my dear daughter. He is in Paris, where he wants for nothing; and if you are good, if you will stop crying, I will read you some of his letters, which will make you happy.”
“Oh! I promise you that I will be good. I will not cry any more—never again,” cried the poor little creature, who instantly began to sob, by way of keeping her promise.
But they were tears of joy this time, and the curé let them flow without reproof. They entered Muiceron together, and Jeannette, without any preambulation, threw herself on her mother's breast, crying out that Jeannet was coming back. Pierrette, who desired it as ardently as she, asked to be excused for one moment, that she might run off and tell Ragaud, who was sowing clover near the house. It was right that they should be all together to hear such welcome news; but scarcely had the good woman reached the door, than she knocked against Jacques Michou, who had just crossed the threshold.
“Jean-Louis! Jean-Louis is coming back!” said Pierrette, as she passed him. “Come in, Jacques Michou; I will be back in a second.”
Michou entered in his usual tranquil manner. He saluted the curé and Jeanne without showing the least excitement.
“Who says that Jeannet is coming back?” he asked.
“We don't say he is coming back,” replied the curé, “but that he will return home.”