Marie clung to her; Monsieur Goupilleau caught her by the arm.
"Marcélite! It was you,—you who sent me to school, who paid for me! And I have no uncle?"
Marcélite looked at the notary,—a prayer for help. The girl fell in a chair and hid her face in her hands.
"Oh, my God! I knew it would kill her! I knew it would! To be supported by a nigger!" She knelt by the chair. "Speak to me, Mamzelle Marie. Speak to me just once! Pardon me, my little mistress! Pardon me! I did not know what I was doing; I am only a fool nigger, anyhow! I wanted you to go to the finest school with ladies, and—and—oh! my bébé won't speak to me; she won't even look at me."
Marie raised her head, put both hands on the nurse's shoulders, and looked her straight in the eyes.
"And that also was all a lie about"—she sank her trembling voice—"about my mother?"
"That a lie! That a lie! 'Fore God in heaven, that was the truth; I swear it. I will
