She
rose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door that
opened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticed
bower. Olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There was
an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealing
tone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between her
palms, she said:
"_Ah! ma mere, qui vini 'ci ce soir_?"--Who is coming here this evening?
"Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like a clean"--
But the daughter was desperate:
"Oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?"
"My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miche Vignevielle!"
"To see me?" cried the girl.
"Yes."
"Oh, my mother, what have you done?"
"Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into
tears, "do you forget it is Miche Vignevielle who has promised to
protect you when I die?"
The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around
again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried:
"How can--he is a white man--I am a poor"--
"Ah! _cherie_," replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands,
"it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! He
sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a
suitor!"
Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood
proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the
next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor.
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