As M. D'Hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, he
uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. She
spoke hurriedly in French.

"Papa, papa, it is not true."

"No, my child," he responded, "I am sure it is not true: I am sure it is
all false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird? The
night is nearly gone."

He laid his hand upon her cheek.

"Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought Manuel would tell you
something of this kind, and I listened."

The father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress.

"Pauline, my child," he said with tremulous voice, "if Manuel's story is
all false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going to
tell it?"

He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good child had one trait which
she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and
discerning; yet now she stood confounded.

"Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, and
not die."

"Oh, papa," she cried, "I do not know!"