Self-satisfied, Marie Berard smiles in her cat-like way as she thinks
of a nice little house in Paris. Its income will support her. She
will nurse this situation with care. It is a gold mine.
There is no wonderment in her keen eyes when Madame de Santos returns
without the child she took away. A French maid never wonders. But
she is astonished when her mistress, calling her, calmly says,
pointing to the lonely orphan:
"Marie, I wish you to aid me to get rid of this child. Do you know
any one in Paris whom we can trust?"
"Will Madame kindly explain?" the maid gasps, her visions of that
snug house becoming more definite.
"Sit down, Marie," the newly christened Madame de Santos commands.
"I will trust you. You shall be richly rewarded."
The Frenchwoman's eyes glitter. The golden shower she has longed
for, "Auri sacra fames."
"You may trust me perfectly, Madame."
"I wish you to understand me fully. We must act at once. I will see
no friends till this girl is out of the way. Then I shall at once
arrange my household."
"Does the young lady not go to the convent?" says the astonished
servant, a trifle maliciously.
"Certainly not," coldly says Hortense. "My own child shall be the
heiress of that fortune.
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