“Gone out, has he? Oh well! he’ll come back! We’ll wait, won’t we, Louise?” “Oh, yes, mother, we will wait; for we must see him when we came to Paris on purpose.” The concierge rejoined with exasperating indifference: “It won’t do you any good to wait; Monsieur de Grandvilain is travelling and he may not come home for ten days or a fortnight.” “Travelling!” cried Louise; “oh dear! it’s very annoying! Where is he travelling, monsieur? in which direction? Has he gone far?” “My master didn’t tell me.” “But tell us at least whether he’s well?” said Nicole; “is he happy? is he enjoying himself in Paris?” “Monsieur le marquis is in perfect health.” “Thank God! But why does he go travelling without coming to see us?--Monsieur, are those young foreign ladies who dance so well travelling with--with Monsieur Chérubin?” “I couldn’t tell you.” Nicole and the young girl returned to Gagny, sadly disappointed that they had not been able to embrace Chérubin; but the nurse said to Louise: “Never mind, we know he’s well, and that’s a great deal.” “Yes, dear mother, and no doubt he’ll come to see us when he returns from this journey; if he doesn’t, we’ll go to Paris again, for he won’t always be away.” But once more the days and weeks passed without a word or a sign from the youth whom they loved so dearly and whom they were always expecting. Conquered by Louise’s tears and entreaties, Nicole consented to go to Paris again, but the second trip was no more fortunate than the first. That time, however, the concierge said that monsieur le marquis had gone to pass some time at the château of one of his friends. The two women returned to Gagny more depressed than ever. “My dear child,” said Nicole, weeping with her, “I believe that the little fellow I nursed doesn’t mean to see me again. You see that he’s forgotten us, for he doesn’t come to the village or send us any word. And when folks in Paris don’t want to see anyone, why they just say that they’re out.” “O mother! do you really think that Chérubin doesn’t want to see us, that he would be ashamed of us?” “I don’t say that, my child; but this much is certain: that I won’t go to his house in Paris again; for they must have told him that we came, and if he still cared anything about us, it seems to me that he wouldn’t have lost any time before coming to see us.” Louise could think of nothing to reply; she longed to defend Chérubin in Nicole’s mind, when in the depths of her own heart she retained only a glimmer of hope. After the second trip to Paris, the girl’s depression became more and more marked; in the presence of her foster-mother she tried to conceal her distress, her sorrow, but when she was alone she gave way to them with a sort of enjoyment; for, in extreme unhappiness, it is almost a consolation not to be disturbed in one’s musings, one’s regrets, one’s memories.