The Eyes of Innocence

"Would you please give your name, madam?" asked the waiter.

And he handed the elder of the two travellers a sheet of paper headed, "Villa-pension des Deux Mondes, Dieppe."

"Write down the name, Gilberte," she said. "I am so tired."

Gilberte took the pen and wrote:

"Mme. Armand and daughter, from London, bound for. . . . Now that I think of it, where are we going next, mother?"

"I don't know yet."

"Oh, that doesn't matter!" said the waiter.

And he took the paper and left the room.

"Yes, Mr. Waiter," cried the young girl, with a laugh. "Mme. Armand and her daughter, arriving from England, from Germany, from Russia, coming to France and delighted, especially Mlle. Armand, who does not yet know her own country!"

"Will you find happiness here?" murmured her mother, sadly, drawing her daughter to her. "There is none left for me, since your poor father is dead; but you, my pet, my dear, loving Gilberte, what has the future in store for you?"

"Why, joys, mother darling, nothing but the greatest joys: haven't I you with me?"

They exchanged a long embrace. Then Mme. Armand said:

"Gilberte, the crossing has upset me; I feel I must lie down for a while. Go and sit on the terrace and come back in an hour. Then we will unpack our trunks and go to the post-office."

"Are you expecting a letter?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"How inquisitive you are!"

"Oh, mummy, you're always saying that! But are you sure that it's not you who are a little—what shall I say—mysterious? You never answer even my simplest questions."

"I shall answer them one day, child, but not before I have to ... not before I have to."

Gilberte saw her mother's face wrung with such anguish that she was silent and fondly kissed her hand. Mme. Armand went on:

"Yes, you are right. I am a little mysterious, very mysterious even; but if you only know how it hurts me to be so! Still, I will answer you this time, dear: the letter I am expecting is from your nurse."

"From my nurse? Then I was brought up in France? But where?"

Mme. Armand was silent. Gilberte waited a few moments, then put on her hat and cloak and said:

"Go and lie down, mother. You poor dear, you look as you do on your bad days. ... There, I'll leave you in peace."

"You won't go out, will you, dear?"