CHAPTER IX.
THE LETTER.The hour of nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock, when Madame Georges softly entered the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter's sun darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it the look of health it so greatly needed.
"Well, my child," said Madame Georges, sitting down and gently kissing her forehead, "how are you this morning?"
"Much better, madame, I thank you."
"I hope you were not awoke very early this morning?"
"No, indeed, madame."
"I am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep here last ni
