“It was about her that I came,” said the countess, “and I little thought my visit could be so useful to you.  That child, you know, can’t remain thirteen; and she will probably grow better-looking.”

“Oh, madame,” replied Olympe, smiling, “I am quite sure of Justin.  What a man! what a heart!—­ If you only knew what a depth of gratitude he feels for his general, to whom, he says, he owes his happiness.  He is only too devoted; he would risk his life for him here, as he would on the field of battle, and he forgets sometimes that he will one day be father of a family.”

“Ah!  I once regretted losing you,” said the countess, with a glance that made Olympe blush; “but I regret it no longer, for I see you happy.  What a sublime and noble thing is married love!” she added, speaking out the thought she had not dared express before the abbe.

Virginie de Troisville dropped into a revery, and Madame Michaud kept silence.

“Well, at least the girl is honest, is she not?” said the countess, as if waking from a dream.

“As honest as I am myself, madame.”

“Discreet?”

“As the grave.”

“Grateful?”

“Ah! madame; she has moments of humility and gentleness towards me which seem to show an angelic nature.  She will kiss my hands and say the most upsetting things.  ‘Can we die of love?’ she asked me yesterday.  ‘Why do you ask me that?’ I said.  ’I want to know if love is a disease.’”

“Did she really say that?”

“If I could remember her exact words I would tell you a great deal more,” replied Olympe; “she appears to know much more than I do.”

“Do you think, my dear, that she could take your place in my service.  I can’t do without an Olympe,” said the countess, smiling in a rather sad way.

“Not yet, madame,—­she is too young; but in two years’ time, yes.  If it becomes necessary that she should go away from here I will let you know.  She ought to be educated, and she knows nothing of the world.  Her grandfather, Pere Niseron, is a man who would let his throat be cut sooner than tell a lie; he would die of hunger in a baker’s shop; he has the strength of his opinions, and the girl was brought up to all such principles.  La Pechina would consider herself your equal; for the old man has made her, as he says, a republican,—­just as Pere Fourchon has made Mouche a bohemian.  As for me, I laugh at such ideas, but you might be displeased.  She would revere you as her benefactress, but never as her superior.  It can’t be otherwise; she is wild and free like the swallows—­her mother’s blood counts for a good deal in what she is.”

“Who was her mother?”