Oh, yes, Mme. Malet is indeed his mother. I always thought his mother
lived in the Pyrenees. I never looked to find her here. Oh! my poor,
poor dear Joe! Oh, Mme. Suzanne, you don't know how my poor Joe did
hunger for his mother!"
"But, Cecile, Cecile," began young Mme. Malet excitedly. So far she
had got when the words, eager and important as they were, were stayed
on her lips.
There was a commotion outside. A woman was heard to shriek, and then
to fall heavily; a lad was heard to speak comforting words, choked
with great sobs; and then, strangest of all, above this tumult came a
very quiet English voice, demanding water--water to pour on the lips
and face of a fainting woman.
Suzanne rushed round to the side from whence these sounds came.
Cecile, being still weak, tried to follow, but felt her legs
tottering. She was too late to go, but not too late to see; for the
next instant big strong Jean Malet appeared, carrying in his fainting
old mother, and immediately behind him and his wife came not only
Cecile's own lost Joe, but that English lady, Miss Smith.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE STORY AND ITS LISTENERS.
It was neither at the fainting mother nor at Joe that Cecile now
looked. With eyes opening wide with astonishment and hope, she ran
forward, caught Miss Smith's two hands in her own, and exclaimed in a
voice rendered unsteady with agitation:
"Oh! have you got my purse? Is Lovedy's Russia-leather purse quite,
quite safe?"
Busy as young Mme.
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