When they had
given vent to their feelings and sufficiently recovered their
presence of mind, they resumed their seats.
"How did you find out my name and address?" inquired Jerome.
"After you had left the grave-yard," replied Clotelle, "our little
boy said, 'Oh, mamma! if there ain't a book!' I opened the book,
and saw your name written in it, and also found a card of the
Hotel de Leon. Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was only
a fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before; but I was
perfectly convinced that you were my own dear Jerome."
As she uttered the last words, tears--the sweet bright tears that
love alone can bring forth--bedewed her cheeks.
"Are you married?" now inquired Clotelle, with a palpitating heart
and trembling voice.
"No, I am not, and never have been," was Jerome's reply.
"Then, thank God!" she exclaimed, in broken accents.
It was then that hope gleamed up amid the crushed and broken
flowers of her heart, and a bright flash darted forth like a
sunbeam.
"Are you single now?" asked Jerome.
"Yes, I am," was the answer.
"Then you will be mine after all?" said he with a smile.
Her dark, rich hair had partly come down, and hung still more
loosely over her shoulders than when she first appeared; and her
eyes, now full of animation and vivacity, and her sweet,
harmonious, and well-modulated voice, together with her modesty,
self-possession, and engaging manners, made Clotelle appear lovely
beyond description.
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