“Ma petite Jeanne chérie, you are rich now.”
“I don’t know exactly,” replied Jeanne, with a mingling of truth and caution. “I have enough for the present.”
“How did it all happen?”
“It was part of a military operation,” said Jeanne.
Perhaps later she might tell Aunt Morin about Doggie. But now the thing was too sacred. Aunt Morin would question, question maddeningly, until the rainbow of her fairy-tale was unwoven. The salient fact of the recovery of her fortune should be enough for Aunt Morin. It was. The old woman of the pain-pinched features looked at her wistfully from sunken grey eyes.
“And now that you are rich, my little Jeanne, you will not leave your poor old aunt, who loves you so much, to die alone?”
“Ah, mais non! mais non! mais non!” cried Jeanne indignantly. “What do you think I am made of?”
“Ah!” breathed Aunt Morin, comforted.
“Also,” said Jeanne, in the matter-of-fact French way, “Si tu veux, I will henceforward pay for my lodging and nourishment.”
“You are very good, my little Jeanne,” said Aunt Morin. “That will be a great help, for, vois-tu, we are very poor.”