) Is some
deceit going on? (Rose sobbed.) Am I to have no reply but these sullen
sobs? will you really tell me nothing?"
"I've nothing to tell," sobbed Rose.
"Well, then, will you do something for me?"
Such a proposal was not only a relief, but a delight to the deceiving
but loving daughter. She started up crying, "Oh, yes, mamma; anything,
everything. Oh, thank you!" In the ardor of her gratitude, she wanted
to kiss her mother; but the baroness declined the embrace politely, and
said, coldly and bitterly, "I shall not ask much; I should not venture
now to draw largely on your affection; it's only to write a few lines
for me."
Rose got paper and ink with great alacrity, and sat down all beaming,
pen in hand.
The baroness dictated the letter slowly, with an eye gimleting her
daughter all the time.
"Dear--Monsieur--Riviere."
The pen fell from Rose's hand, and she turned red and then pale.
"What! write to him?"
"Not in your own name; in mine. But perhaps you prefer to give me the
trouble."
"Cruel! cruel!" sighed Rose, and wrote the words as requested.
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