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“To Paris!”

“I am anxious,” shaking her head seriously. “I had last night a bad dream. I wish to see Laure.”

Then she turned and looked at Jeanne almost wistfully.

“It is a long time since I have seen her,” she said.

“Yes,” answered Jeanne in a little doubt; “but Paris is a long way off.”

“Yes,” said Mere Giraud; “but it appears that all at once I realize how long it is since I have seen my child. I am getting old, you see. I was not very young when she was born, and, as one grows older, one becomes more uneasy and obstinate in one’s fancies. This morning I feel that I must see my Laure. My heart yearns for her, and”–hastily–“she will undoubtedly be rejoiced to see me. She has often said that she wished she might lay her head upon my breast again.”

It seemed that she was resolved upon the journey. She was in a singular, uneasy mood, and restless beyond measure. She who had never been twenty miles from St. Croix had made up her mind to leave it at once and confront all the terrors of a journey to Paris,–for there were terrors in such a journey to the mind of a simple peasant who had so far traveled but in one groove. She would not even wait to consult Monsieur le Cure, who was unfortunately absent. Jeanne discovered to her astonishment that she had already made her small preparations, had packed her best garments in a little wooden box, laying the silk gown and lace cap at the top that they might be in readiness.

“I will not interfere at all, and I shall not remain long,” she said. “Only long enough to see my Laure, and spend a few days with her quietly. It is not Paris I care for, or the great sights; it is that I must see my child.”

St. Croix was fairly bewildered at the news it heard the next day. Mere Giraud had gone to Paris to visit Madame Legrand–had actually gone, sending her little servant home, and shutting up her small, trim cottage.

“Let us hope that Madame Legrand will receive her as she expects to be received,” said Annot. “For my part I should have preferred to remain in St. Croix. Only yesterday Jeanne Tallot told us that she had no intention of going.”

“She will see wonderful things,” said the more simple and amiable. “It is possible that she may be invited to the Tuileries, and without doubt she will drive to the Bois de Boulogne in Madame Legrand’s carriage, with servants in livery to attend her. My uncle’s sister’s son, who is a valet de place in a great family, tells us that the aristocracy drive up and down the Champs Ellysees every afternoon, and the sight is magnificent.”

But Mere Giraud did not look forward to such splendors as these. “I shall see my Laure as a great lady,” she said to herself. “I shall hold her white hands and kiss her cheeks.”

The roar of vehicles, and the rush and crowd and bustle bewildered her; the brightness and the rolling wheels dazzled her old eyes, but she held herself bravely. People to whom she spoke smiled at her patois and her innocent questions, but she did not care.

She found a fiacre which took her to her destination; and when, after she had paid the driver, he left her, she entered the wide doors with a beating heart, the blood rising on her cheek, and glowing through the withered skin.

“Madame Legrand,” she said a little proudly to the concierge, and the woman stared at her as she led her up the staircase. She was so eager that she scarcely saw the beauty around her,–the thick, soft carpets, the carved balustrades, the superb lamps. But when they stopped before a door she touched the concierge upon the arm.

“Do not say my name,” she said. “I am her mother.”