“Louise, you must leave this house, unless you want me to die--to die of grief. Oh! my suffering has been horrible! and I feel that I shall not have the strength to endure it any longer.” “What! can it be that I am the cause of your suffering, madame? Indeed I will go; yes, be sure of it. Mon Dieu! if I had known it sooner, I would have gone long ago and spared you much annoyance. Forgive me; for, far from seeking to make you unhappy, I would give my life to prove my zealous attachment to you. But no matter--I will go.” “Poor Louise! then you do not hate me--me who have treated you so harshly, who have never said a kind or gentle word to you?” “Hate you, madame? Oh! that doesn’t seem possible to me; it seems to me that it is my duty to love you.--Oh! pardon--I forget that I am only a poor servant.” “A servant--you! Ah! that is what is killing me, that is what I cannot endure! You, a servant in my house! O my God! I was very guilty, I know, since Thou hast inflicted this punishment on me; but to-day it was too heavy.--Great heaven! what am I saying? I am losing my wits.--Louise, my poor child, you have believed that I detested you, that that was the reason why I was constantly trying to keep you away from me, have you not?--Ah! if you could have read in the depths of my heart!” “Is it possible, madame, that you do not dislike me? Oh! I am so glad!” “Listen to me, Louise. You ought not to be a servant; you ought to be rich and happy, poor girl! You have suffered enough for faults committed by others; your lot will soon be changed. Here, take this letter which I have just written, and hand it to the person whose name is on the envelope, to whom you will go at once on leaving here. I do not know where the--the person to whom I am sending you lives now, but you can learn by going to Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain’s house; he is his friend, and he will tell you at once where he lives. You know Monsieur Chérubin’s house, do you not?” “Oh, yes! I have been there twice, madame.--And the person to whom I am to give this letter?” “That person will--at least, I think so--restore you to your father.” “To my father! O my God! What, madame! I shall find my parents? Do you know them, madame?” “Ask me nothing more, Louise; what I am doing now is a great deal. I swore that I would never write to this person; but since I have seen you, I have felt that it was wicked, very wicked, to deprive you of your father’s caresses; for he will be happy to recover you! Oh, yes! I am sure that he will surround you with love and care.” “And my mother, madame--you say nothing of her? Shall I not see her too? Oh! it would be so sweet to me to hold her in my arms!”