"Ah! no, Monsieur," said Zalli.
The invalid's heart sank like a stone.
"Madame John,"--his voice was all in a tremor,--"tell me the truth. Is
'Tite Poulette your own child?"
"Ah-h-h, ha! ha! what foolishness! Of course she is my child!" And
Madame gave vent to a true Frenchwoman's laugh.
It was too much for the sick man. In the pitiful weakness of his
shattered nerves he turned his face into his pillow and wept like a
child. Zalli passed into the next room to hide her emotion.
"Maman, dear Maman," said 'Tite Poulette, who had overheard nothing, but
only saw the tears.
"Ah! my child, my child, my task--my task is too great--too great for
me. Let me go now--another time. Go and watch at his bedside."
"But, Maman,"--for 'Tite Poulette was frightened,--"he needs no care
now."
"Nay, but go, my child; I wish to be alone."
The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tiptoed to the window--_that
window_. The patient, already a man again, gazed at her till she could
feel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a moment to gather
resolution.
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