"Come, dear Aloyse, my good nurse," said he, "really, although you seem more moved than I, you have no longer the least excuse for refusing to tell me what you have promised. Now, Aloyse, you must speak without fear, and, above all, without delay. Haven't you hesitated long enough, my dear, kind nurse; and have I not, like an obedient son, waited long enough h When I asked you what name I had the right to bear, and to what family I belonged, and who my father was, you replied, 'Gabriel, I will tell you the whole story on the day that you are eighteen,--the age at which he who has the right to wear a sword attains his majority.' Now, to-day, this 5th of May, 1551, I have lived eighteen full years; so I called upon you this morning to keep your promise, but you replied with a solemn visage which almost terrified me, 'It is not here in the humble dwelling of a poor squire's widow that I should make you known to yourself, but in the château of the counts of Montgommery, and in the _salon d'honneur_ in that château.' Now we have come up the mountain, good Aloyse, have crossed the threshold of the noble counts, and here we are in the _salon d'honneur_; so, speak!" "Sit down, Gabriel, for you will allow me to call you by that name once more." The young man took her hands with a most affectionate movement. "Sit down," she repeated, "not on that chair, nor on that sofa." "But where do you want me to sit, then, dear nurse?" interrupted the young man. "Under this dais," said Aloyse, with an accent of deep solemnity. The young man complied. Aloyse nodded her head. "Now, listen to me," said she. "But do you be seated too," said Gabriel "Will you permit me?" "Are you laughing at me, nurse?" The good woman took her place on the steps of the dais, at the feet of the young man, who was all attention, and devoured her with a gaze full of kindliness and curiosity. "Gabriel," said the nurse, when she had at last made up her mind to speak, "you were scarcely six years old when you lost your father and I lost my husband. You had been my foster-child, for your mother died in giving birth to you. From that day, I, your mother's foster-sister, loved you as if you were my own child. The widow devoted her life to the orphan. As she had given you her breast, she gave you her heart too; and you will do me this justice, will you not, Gabriel, that in your belief, my thoughts, when you have been away from me, have never failed to be with you and watching over you?" "Dear Aloyse," said the young man, "many real mothers would have done less than you have. I swear it; and not one, I swear again, could have done more."