"Yes, a man. He talked to me, quite low, very gently . . . his voice did me good . . . and, as he carried me down the road and also in the carriage, during the night, he rocked me in his arms and told me stories . . . in the same voice . . . in the same voice . . ." She broke off gradually and looked at him again, more sharply than before and with a more obvious effort to seize the fleeting impression that passed over her at moments. He asked: "And then? Where did he take you?" "I can't recollect clearly . . . it is just as though I had slept for several days. . . . I can remember nothing before the little town of Montégut, in the Vendée, where I spent the second half of my childhood, with Father and Mother Izereau, a worthy couple who reared me and brought me up and whose love and devotion I shall never forget." "And did they die, too?" "Yes," she said, "of an epidemic of typhoid fever in the district . . . but I did not know that until later. . . . As soon as they fell ill, I was carried off as on the first occasion and under the same conditions, at night, by some one who also wrapped me up in blankets. . . . Only, I was bigger, I struggled, I tried to call out . . . and he had to close my mouth with a silk handkerchief." "How old were you then?" "Fourteen . . . it was four years ago." "Then you were able to see what the man was like?" "No, he hid his face better and he did not speak a single word to me. . . . Nevertheless, I have always believed him to be the same one . . . for I remember the same solicitude, the same attentive, careful movements. . . ." "And after that?" "After that, came oblivion, sleep, as before. . . . This time, I was ill, it appears; I was feverish. . . . And I woke in a bright, cheerful room. A white-haired lady was bending over me and smiling. It was grandmother . . . and the room was the one in which I now sleep upstairs." She had resumed her happy face, her sweet, radiant expression; and she ended, with a smile: "That was how she became my grandmother and how, after a few trials, the little Aspremont girl now knows the delights of a peaceful life and teaches grammar and arithmetic to little girls who are either naughty or lazy . . . but who are all fond of her." She spoke cheerfully, in a tone at once thoughtful and gay, and it was obvious that she possessed a reasonable, well-balanced mind. Sernine listened to her with growing surprise and without trying to conceal his agitation: "Have you never heard speak of that man since?" he asked. "Never." "And would you be glad to see him again?" "Oh, very glad." "Well, then, mademoiselle . . ." Geneviève gave a start: "You know something . . . the truth perhaps . . ." "No . . . no . . . only . . ." He rose and walked up and down the room. From time to time, his eyes fell upon Geneviève; and it looked as though he were on the point of giving a more precise answer to the question which she had put to him. Would he speak?