Madame
Ferailleur was just returning home when he arrived, which
surprised him considerably, for he had not known that she had
intended going out. The cab she had used was still standing
before the door, and she had not had time to take off her shawl
and bonnet when he entered the house. She uttered a joyful cry on
perceiving her son. She was so accustomed to read his secret
thoughts on his face, that it was unnecessary for him to say a
word; before he had even opened his lips, she cried: "So you have
succeeded?"
"Yes, mother, beyond my hopes."
"I was not deceived, then, in the worthy man who came to offer us
his assistance?"
"No, certainly not. Do what I may, I can never repay him for his
generosity and self-denial. If you knew, my dear mother, if you
only knew----"
"What?"
He kissed her as if he wished to apologize for what he was about
to say, and then he quickly replied: "Marguerite is the daughter
of Baroness Trigault."
Madame Ferailleur started back, as if she had seen a reptile
spring up in her pathway. "The daughter of the baroness!" she
faltered. "Great Heavens!"
"It is the truth, mother; listen to me." And in a voice that
trembled with emotion, he rapidly related all he had learned by
his visit to the baron, softening the truth as much as he could
without concealing it. But prevarication was useless.
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