Natalie's mother rose
to receive him; he fancied she had been crying.
"I am come to take you to your new rooms," he said, cheerfully. "They
are better than these."
"Ah, that is kind of you," she said, also speaking in French; "but in
truth what do I care where I am? My heart is full of joy. It is enough
for me to sit quiet and say to myself, 'My child loves me. She has not
turned away from me. She is more beautiful even than I had believed; and
she has a good heart. I have no longer any fear.'"
"Yes, madame," said he, "but you must not sit quiet and think like that,
or you will become ill, and then how are you to go out walking with
Natalie? You have many things to do, and many things to decide on. For
example, you will have to explain to her how it is you may not go to her
father's house. At this moment what other thing than that do you imagine
she is thinking about? She will ask you."
"I would rather not tell her," said the mother, absently; "it is better
she should not know."
He hesitated for a second or two.
"Then it is impossible that a reconciliation between your husband and
yourself--"
"Oh no, no!" she said, somewhat sadly; "that is impossible, now.
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