Meanwhile Madame de Noirmont had resumed her grave demeanor, and Ernestine had had to return to her seat. Louise served the tea as quickly as possible, then left the room, fearing that her sadness would be noticed.

Despite all her efforts to be calm, Louise was still crying when Ernestine entered her room to ask her some question, before going to bed. Seeing that Louise's face was wet with tears, her young mistress ran to her, and said with the most touching interest:

"Mon Dieu! crying, Louise! What's the matter?"

"Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle. I know that I should not weep here, where everyone is so kind to me; but I could not help it!"

"Have you some reason for being unhappy? You would not cry like this for nothing. Louise, I insist on knowing why you were crying."

"Well, mademoiselle, it is because, when I saw you in your mother's arms to-night, the picture of the happiness you enjoy made me feel more keenly than ever the misery of my position. Oh! mademoiselle, it isn't envy that makes me say it! I bless Heaven for making you so happy; but I could not help crying when I remembered that my mother never kissed me, that I shall never be able to throw my arms about her!"

"What's that you say, my poor Louise? Doesn't your mother love you?"

"It isn't that, mademoiselle. But listen, I am going to tell you the truth, for I don't know how to lie. And then, I don't understand why I should make a mystery of it; you won't be any less kind to me when you know that I am a poor girl, abandoned by her parents."

"Is it possible? you haven't any parents?"

"At all events, mademoiselle, I don't know them."

Thereupon Louise proceeded to tell Ernestine the story of how Nicole had been employed to take care of her, and of the kindness of the village people, who had kept her and treated her like their daughter, when they found that she was abandoned by her mother.

Ernestine listened to the story with the deepest interest. When Louise had ceased to speak, she kissed her affectionately, saying:

"Poor Louise! Oh! how glad I am you have told me that! It seems to me that I love you even more since I know that your parents have abandoned you. And that dear, good Nicole! those kind peasants! Ah! what splendid people they are! I will tell mamma all about it to-morrow! I am sure that it will interest her too."

"Oh! that isn't worth while, mademoiselle; Madame de Noirmont may not like it because I have told you about my troubles."

"I a.s.sure you, on the contrary, that, for all her serious manner, mamma is kind and good; and, besides, she likes you very much. She has said to me several times that your manners were just what they should be, and that is great praise from her, I tell you!--Well, good-night, Louise, sleep soundly, and don't cry any more. If you haven't any parents, you have some people here who love you dearly and who will take good care of you."

Ernestine left Louise, to go to bed, and the latter felt less unhappy when she saw her young mistress's affection for her--an affection which she shared with all the sincerity of her soul.

The next morning the Noirmont family met at the breakfast table.

Ernestine had not seen her mother since the preceding night, because a headache had kept Madame de Noirmont in bed later than usual; but her father, who rarely appeared at breakfast, had just taken his seat, when Ernestine, after kissing her mother, said in a mysterious tone:

"I have something very interesting to tell you this morning, and I am glad papa came to breakfast, to hear what I am going to say."

"Really?" said Monsieur de Noirmont, smiling, and in a tone of mild raillery. "From the way in which you say that, I imagine that it must really be something most serious."

"Why, yes, papa, it's very serious! Oh! you look as if you were laughing at me, but when you know what it is, I'll bet that you will be as touched as I was last night when I found poor Louise crying!"

"What! is it something about Louise?" asked Madame de Noirmont, with an air of deep interest; "can it be that anything has gone wrong with her?

I should be extremely sorry, for the girl is a very good girl indeed, and seems to deserve our kindness."

"This is what it is; listen. Louise didn't want me to tell you; but I am very sure that you won't blame her for it; it isn't her fault."

Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said impatiently:

"Come, my child, go on, explain yourself."

"Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the tea, she found me in mamma's arms, and we were kissing each other."

"That is well, my daughter; what next?"

"At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn't find a fichu that I wanted, I went to Louise's room to ask her where she had put it. I found her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied, sobbing: 'Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother's arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.'"

"An abandoned child!" murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly became deathly pale.

"But," said Monsieur de Noirmont, "if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us that the girl's parents lived in the outskirts of Paris--I don't remember in what village."

"Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here; but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise thought it was better to tell the truth."

"She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you, madame--are not you curious to hear this girl's story?"

Madame de Noirmont replied with a few almost unintelligible words; it was as if she were oppressed by some secret suffering, which she was doing her utmost to conceal.

Meanwhile, Ernestine had not waited for her father to repeat his request; she had run off to call Louise, who soon appeared before the a.s.sembled family.

Monsieur de Noirmont looked at her with more interest than he had previously displayed; Ernestine smiled at her affectionately; Madame de Noirmont lowered her eyes and became paler than ever. From the disquietude that had taken possession of her, from the anxiety that could be read upon her features, one would have taken her for a criminal awaiting judgment.

"Come, Louise, come nearer," said Monsieur de Noirmont, motioning to her; "my daughter has told us of what you told her last evening. Do not tremble, my child; we shall not reproach you for telling us what was not true when you entered our service."

"Oh! it was not I, monsieur!" murmured Louise.

"I know it, it was the person who obtained the situation for you, who thought it his duty to tell that falsehood.--So you do not know your parents, my poor girl?"

"No, monsieur."

"Where were you brought up?"

"At Gagny, monsieur."

"At Gagny. Ah! that's it; I had forgotten the name of the village that you told me when you came here.--And the people who brought you up?"

"A kindhearted peasant woman, Nicole Frimousset. She was nursing Monsieur Cherubin de Grandvilain at the time."

"Indeed! so this woman was the young Marquis de Grandvilain's nurse?"

"Yes, monsieur, he is my foster-brother, and in my childhood we played together all the time."

"Very good! But that doesn't tell us how you went to Gagny."

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, it was a lady--my mother, I suppose--who carried me to dear Nicole's, and begged her to take me to nurse. I was then a year old; she left some money with Nicole and went away, saying that she would come again. The next year she sent a little more money by a messenger from Paris; but she didn't come to see me, and no one ever after came to inquire for me."

"But what was the lady's name; where did she live?"

"Nicole didn't think to ask her any of those questions; for she could not dream that she would abandon me, that she would never come again.

The messenger from Paris did not know who the lady was who hired him on the street, he could not tell my good nurse anything."

"But was no paper, no mark found on you or on your clothing?"