"But Captain l'Endurci is not the man to tamely submit to defeat, as the following extract from that gentleman's letter to a friend in this city conclusively proves.
"He writes as follows:
"'When I found myself a prisoner in the hold, my rage at the cowardly trick which had been played upon me became ungovernable. I had been thrown upon a few pieces of old sail in the hold, with my legs securely bound together with a long piece of rope as big as my thumb, and with my hands tied behind my back. I tried by stooping to reach with my teeth the rope that bound my legs, but found it impossible. I knew by the motion of the boat that a strong wind was blowing, and that we were heading straight for the shores of England.
"'I knew the fate that awaited me there. A few words that had passed between my captors had enlightened me. Instead of killing me outright, they wanted to see me lead a life of torture in the hulks. One of them had even spoken of exposing me to the jeers and insults of the populace for several days.
"'The mere thought of such a thing nearly drove me mad, and in a paroxysm of fury I sank back on the old sails, foaming with rage. This ebullition over, anger as usual gave me new strength. My blood boiled in my veins, then, mounting to my brain, gave birth to a thousand projects, each one more audacious than the other, and I felt both my physical and mental vigour increased a hundred-fold by this effervescent condition of all my vital powers.
"'I finally decided upon one of the plans that this paroxysm of rage had suggested to me. In any other frame of mind, it would have seemed utterly impracticable to me, and I believe it would have seemed so to any man who was not half frenzied by a spirit of anger,—anger, that dread and powerful divinity, as the Indian poet says.'"
For some time the young girl who sat listening had seemed to be a prey to a painful preoccupation; several times she had started impatiently as if anxious to escape from some harrowing thought, and now suddenly interrupting the reading in spite of herself, as it were, she exclaimed:
"That man makes me shudder!"
"And why?" demanded the housekeeper. "This brave sailor seems to me as brave as a lion."
"But what a man of iron!" exclaimed the girl, more and more excitedly. "How violent he is! And to think that any person should dare to excuse and even glorify anger when it is so horrible—so unspeakably horrible!"
The housekeeper, without attaching much importance to the girl's protest, however, replied:
"Nonsense, my child! You say that anger is so terrible. That depends,—for if anger suggested to the captain a way and means of escape from these treacherous Englishmen, he is perfectly right to glorify it, and I, in his place—But good Heavens!" she exclaimed, seeing the girl turn alarmingly pale and close her eyes as if she were about to swoon. "Good Heavens, what is the matter with you? Your lips are quivering. You are crying. You do not answer me,—speak, what is the matter?"
But the words failed to reach the ears of the poor child. With her large eyes distended with terror and bewilderment, she indicated with a gesture some apparition which existed only in her disordered imagination, and murmured, wildly:
"The man in black! Oh, the man in black! There he is now! Don't you see him?"
"Calm yourself! Don't allow yourself to think any more about that, in Heaven's name. Don't you know how hurtful such thoughts are to you?"
"Oh, that man! He was equally terrible in his rage, when—It was years and years ago, and I was little more than a baby, but I can see him yet, in his strange, sombre costume of black and white like the livery of the dead. It was night, and my father was absent from home when this man gained an entrance into our house, I know not how. I had never seen him before. He threatened my mother, who was holding me in her arms. 'At least spare my child!' she sobbed. I remember it well. But he only exclaimed, still advancing threateningly upon my mother, 'Don't you know that I am capable of anything in my anger?' And then he rushed out of the room. Oh, my mother, my mother dead, and I—"
The girl could say no more, for she was relapsing into one of the nervous spasms which this terrible recollection almost always caused,—this recollection of a deplorable occurrence from which her condition of morbid susceptibility seemed to have dated.
This crisis soon abated, thanks to the judicious attentions of the housekeeper, who was, alas! only too used to rendering them. When she was herself again, the young girl, whose character was a singular compound of weakness and firmness, thought with shame and regret of the lack of self-control she had displayed while this account of the corsair's escape was being read, an account which, strange to say, had an inexplicable fascination for her, inspiring her at the same time with horror and a sort of morbid curiosity; so, in spite of Onésime's entreaties, she insisted that he should continue the reading so unfortunately interrupted.
The housekeeper, noting this insistence, and fearing that any opposition might react very dangerously upon the girl's excitable nature just at this time, also requested Onésime to continue the account of Captain l'Endurci's escape.
The rest of the captain's letter read as follows:
"'In order to carry out my plan, the first thing I had to do was to free myself from my bonds. Being unable to reach them with my mouth so I could gnaw them in two with my teeth, I devised another means. By crawling about on my stomach and feeling around with my face—as I had no use of my hands—I finally succeeded in discovering a large iron hook, doubtless intended for holding the ballast in place. Approaching this hook, I leaned my back against it and began to rub the ropes that bound me across the iron and upon the sharp end of the hook. Two hours afterward I had worn the ropes sufficiently thin to be able to sever them by a powerful wrench, anger having endowed me with almost supernatural strength.
"'My hands free, the rest was only child's play.
"'I had my tinder-box, my pipe, a package of tobacco, and a long whaling-knife in my pocket. In the twinkling of an eye I had cut the ropes that bound my legs and started on a tour of inspection through the hold on my hands and knees, as it was too low to admit of my standing upright.
"'I could find nothing but some scraps of old sail and a few pieces of rope. The only means of egress was a square hatchway. The boards of which this was made had separated a little in one place, and I could see the moonlight through the opening. Placing my hands upon my knees and making my body into a bow, I tried to force open the hatchway with my shoulders, but in vain. It was evidently secured—as it should have been—with two strong iron bars.
"'Taking some of the ends of rope, I cut them into small pieces, untwisted the strands, and in this way soon collected a small pile of tow. Afterward I cut some of the old canvas on which I had been lying into narrow strips and laid them on the little pile of tow, which I had placed directly under the hatchway; after which I emptied my little bag of tobacco on it to make it more combustible, and set fire to it, blowing it vigorously all the while.
"'The tow took fire, communicated it to the pieces of old sail, and an instant afterward the hold was filled with a dense smoke, part of which filtered through the opening in the hatchway, while I yelled "Fire!" with all my might. My cries and the strong smell of smoke that escaped through the hatchway frightened the men on deck. I heard a great commotion up there, the hatchway was raised almost immediately, and the thick cloud of smoke that poured out through the opening was so blinding that I was able to make my way through it, unseen, to the deck, with a single bound, knife in hand. I found myself face to face with a tall, swarthy man. I plunged my knife into his heart. He fell backward into the sea. Leaping for the axe which is always kept near the bitt, so the rigging can be quickly cut away if need be, I struck down another man; then, with a back stroke, nearly cut off the arm of a man who was rushing upon me, sabre in hand. All this occurred almost in the twinkling of an eye. Taking advantage of the sort of stupor that had seized the crew, and feeling much calmer after this explosion of long-suppressed rage, I could see better where I was, or take my bearings a little, as the saying is.
"'It was a magnificent moonlight night; a strong breeze was blowing; an old, white-haired sailor was at the helm; a cabin-boy and three terrified sailors had taken refuge in the bow, separated from me by the open hatchway. The man I had struck down with the axe did not move; the one I had wounded was on his knees, holding his right arm in his left hand.
"'I still had three able-bodied men, a boy, and an old man to contend with, but they, all seemed to be demoralised by my sudden attack.
"'Just then I caught sight of a pair of pistols near the rudder, and before either of the three sailors could make the slightest movement, I jumped for these weapons. In another moment my two bullets had struck down a man apiece. With me at the helm, and the old sailor and the boy to assist me, the boat could be handled with little or no difficulty, for the weather was superb, and we could not be more than fourteen or fifteen miles from the shores of France.
"'My situation thus promptly defined, I loaded my pistols again and advanced toward the three men, who were gradually recovering from their surprise.
"'"Go down into the hold, all three of you," I thundered. "If you don't, I'll shoot two of you, and hew down the other."
"'There was only the length of the hatchway—about four feet—between me and these men, so I could easily blow their brains out. They instantly jumped into the hold, where the small quantity of combustible material I had lighted was now nearly burned out. The wounded man, too, staggered down as best he could; I replaced the hatchway, securing it with the iron bars as before; then I walked to the stern of the boat.
"'"Give me the helm," I said to the old sailor; "you and the boy are to manage the sail, and manage it right, or I'll blow your brains out."
"'As I took the rudder out of his hand, he recoiled a step and exclaimed:
"'"It is Captain l'Endurci, as I live!"
"'"You know me, then?"
"'"Know you, captain! I made two voyages with you on the Hell-hound."
"'"And your name?"
"'"Simon from Dunkirk."
"'"I remember you now. So you intended to deliver me, your old captain, into the hands of the English, did you?"
"'"May I be shot if I suspected for a single instant that it was you, captain."
"'"So this smack belongs to you, I suppose."
"'"No, captain, to Bezelek."
"'"And where is he?"
"'"At the bottom of the sea. He was the man that you killed first and that fell overboard."
"'"But how does it happen that you consented to have a hand in my abduction?"
"'"Well, captain, we've been doing a little smuggling."
"'"That is very apparent."
"'"And night before last two men came to us,—that is one of them lying there now."
"'He pointed to the dead man in the bow as he spoke.
"'"Throw him into the sea," I said, curtly.
"'"And the other man?" I inquired, as soon as this order had been obeyed.
"'"He is down in the hold. He is the man you wounded in the arm."
"'"And how did these men induce you and Bezelek to become their accomplices?"
"'"They said: 'Bezelek, there are fifty guineas ready for you if you will consent to take a man we will bring to you to England. We do not intend to injure him in any way; but if he resists, you and your men will be expected to lend a hand in gagging and binding him, and placing him in the hold of your fishing-smack. You will be paid twenty-five guineas in advance, and twenty-five more on your arrival at Folkestone.' As there seemed to be no great harm in the proceeding, the offer tempted Bezelek and he agreed to do what the men asked. But I swear that I had no idea it was you. If I had, I would never have had anything to do with the affair."
"'Four hours after I escaped from the hold we were within sight of the port of Mora, where I landed safe and sound.'
"Our readers will, we are sure, feel grateful to us," added the Journal of the Empire, "for having given them this extract from the brave privateer's letter. Thanks be to God, Captain l'Endurci, by his coolness and courage, succeeded in escaping this most infamous conspiracy against him. Let us hope that his name will long remain a terror to the enemies of France."
The article concluded, Onésime laid the paper on the table.
"What a wonderful man this corsair must be!" exclaimed the housekeeper, admiringly. "Alone, bound and gagged, he nevertheless found a way to escape his imminent danger."
"But what a quantity of blood he had to shed!" exclaimed the girl, shuddering. "And not a single word of regret or of pity for his victims. With what cruel indifference he speaks of the men he killed in cold blood; for thus taken by surprise, the poor creatures could offer no resistance."
"That is true," murmured Onésime.
But his aunt did not even hear him, for, turning to the girl, she exclaimed, warmly:
"It is very easy to talk, my child, but in such a position one certainly has a right—"
"Ah, yes, my dear, you are probably going to say that this man was the victim of the vilest treachery,—that he had an undoubted right to recover his liberty at any cost, and that his ferocious disregard of the lives of others is what people call courage and heroism. All this is very possible. I am a poor judge, perhaps. I only tell you how it impresses me. This account of his exploits excites only horror and aversion in me."
"But a corsair is a corsair, my child. You certainly don't expect him to be a saint. Each man according to his trade."
"It is an executioner's business to behead people, aunt, but that makes his trade none the less horrible," exclaimed Onésime.
"Ah, I felt sure M. Onésime would feel as I do about it," said the girl, quickly.
"He? oh, yes, I don't doubt it! He is a regular sissy. When did you ever hear of his doing any fighting?"
"I admit that I am no hero, aunt," replied Onésime, smiling, "I don't doubt in the least that if I were a prisoner, and obliged to kill somebody to regain my liberty, I should remain a prisoner."
"Yours is the truest, noblest kind of courage, after all," responded the young girl, warmly, for her dislike of warriors in general was perhaps due in a great measure to the fact that Onésime, both by reason of his temperament and his infirmity, was never likely to be a man of that kind.
"Onésime courageous!" retorted the housekeeper. "You must be jesting!" Then, turning to her nephew, she cried: "Don't you see that mademoiselle is making fun of you, my poor boy? Oh, well, put my knitting on the table for me, my brave hero, and hand me my work-box without dropping it if you can."
The young man was consequently obliged to hold out both his hands in turn, one to present the work-box, the other to take the knitting, and as the light from the lamp fell full on the table, the pitiless aunt instantly discovered the terrible burn he had received.
"Good Heavens! what is the matter with your hand?" she exclaimed.
"Nothing of any consequence, aunt," he replied, hastily drawing back his hand, while the young girl, whose attention had been attracted by the housekeeper's exclamation, turned toward him anxiously.
But the aunt sprang up, and, seizing her nephew's hand in spite of his efforts to hide it, examined it carefully.
"It is frightfully burned, frightfully!" she cried. "Why, you must be suffering agony with it. It was just done. How did it happen? I know. It was when you poured the boiling water in the urn, and, for fear we would laugh at you, you endured the terrible pain without a word. You even had the courage to go on reading all this time just as if nothing had happened."
"Ah, I told you that he was brave," exclaimed the young girl. "His is the true courage, after all,—not the ferocious courage born of anger, that seeks only to destroy, but the courage of noble hearts who, for fear of alarming those whom they love, endure the most intense suffering without so much as a sign."
The girl's emotion repaid the young man a thousand-fold for his suffering; he even had the happiness of seeing the touching expression of her features, too, this time, as she would insist upon assisting the housekeeper in dressing Onésime's hand.
This work had just been completed, and Onésime was regretting that he had only one burn, when the door of the little parlour was suddenly thrown open, and a servant rushed in, exclaiming:
"Dame Roberts, Dame Roberts, M. Segoffin has come!"
"And my father,—my father has come too, has he not?" exclaimed the girl, her face radiant with joy.
"No, mademoiselle, M. Segoffin says monsieur was detained at the post-office by some letters, but that he will be here almost immediately."
The girl hastened out of the room to prepare to meet her father. As the door closed behind her, Dame Roberts turned to her nephew and said:
"Go up to your room now, Onésime. I will see you before I go to bed and tell you what M. Cloarek says in relation to you, for he must know why I took you into his house in his absence, though I know his kindness of heart well enough to feel sure that he will approve of what I have done."
So Onésime went up to his room oppressed by a vague uneasiness. He had scarcely left the parlour, when M. Segoffin entered it.
It would be far from complimentary to the reader's penetration to suppose that he had not long since recognised in Onésime's defender Mlle. Cloarek, who lost her mother at the age of five years, in consequence of a nervous shock. We trust, too, that the reader's penetration has served him equally well in the case of Suzanne Roberts, Sabine's former nurse, and Madame Cloarek's confidential attendant and housekeeper, and likewise in the case of Captain l'Endurci and his brave head gunner.
Twelve years have elapsed since we last saw Segoffin, and he is little changed in appearance. He looks as much like a clown as ever, the only modifications which time, or rather events, have made in his grotesquely grave features being, first, a deep scar beginning at the left temple, and extending to the bottom of the cheek (a wound caused, as he affirmed, by an unfortunate fall upon a piece of broken glass).
Second, the recent loss of an eye, an unfortunate loss indicated by a large black patch, and caused, no doubt, by some similar mishap.
In spite of these rather grave injuries to his personal charms, M. Segoffin held his head as high as ever. A long white cravat, decorated with bright red polka dots, encircled his throat; his long redingote and knee-breeches were of the finest brown broadcloth, and his black stockings were of silk. In his right hand, from which two fingers were missing,—two fingers carelessly lost, as he declared, from having been caught in a piece of machinery,—he carried a heavy cane, for he was quite lame now, in consequence of another accident,—at least, so he said.
On seeing Segoffin, Dame Roberts, in spite of the taunts with which she had pursued him for so many years, made no attempt to conceal her pleasure. In the delight his return caused her, she did not notice, at first, that Segoffin was all the while endeavouring to present only his profile, or as nearly a three-quarter view of his face as possible, to the object of his affections. The fact is, he wished to defer the explanation of the recent loss of his eye until the latest possible moment, but the lady, on going a little closer to him, noticed the disfiguring patch, and exclaimed:
"Good Heavens! what is the matter with your eye, Segoffin?"
"Which eye?"
"Why, your right eye."
"My right eye?"
"Yes. Why do you wear that big black patch over it?"
"I know."
"I should suppose that you did. As for me, I am afraid to guess what the matter is."
"Nonsense! guess away."
"You have lost an eye."
"There is no undoing that which is done."
"I declare, since monsieur went into business and took you for his clerk, there is many a soldier at the Invalides that isn't half as much battered up as you are. How on earth did you lose your eye?"
"The fact is, my sight has been failing for some time past, so I decided to put on spectacles. I went to purchase a pair. It was at Lyons. Ah, that rascally optician!" exclaimed Segoffin, shaking his fist in a sort of retrospective rage.
"Calm yourself, Segoffin, and go on with your story."
"It was a splendid day, and the optician's shop stood in a blaze of sunlight on the Quai du Rhone, my dear,—in a blaze of sunlight, remember that."
"What difference does that make?"
"A vast amount of difference. I asked to try some spectacles. The scoundrel handed me a pair. I put them on my nose. Just at that moment loud screams were heard on the quay, and curiosity naturally caused me to run to the door."
"Of course."
"I ran to the door, I say, with the spectacles still on my nose, and I was looking all around, first to the right, then to the left, to see where the cries came from, when, happening to look up, I had very much the same feeling in my right eye as if the ball had been pierced by a red-hot iron."
"Good Heavens! what caused it?"
"One of the glasses in the pair which the optician had given me was of great magnifying power," replied Segoffin, "and when I looked up and the noonday sun shone full on my glasses, it converted the lens I speak of into a sort of burning-glass. My eye was burned out. You could positively hear it sizzle."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Dame Roberts. "Did you really lose your eye in that way?"
"There is no undoing that which is done. But I will say this much, since I have had but one eye that one has been doing the work of two in the most remarkable manner. I have the eyes or rather the eye of fifteen, so to me you look as handsome, as handsome as if you were fifteen, my dear."
"I have no such juvenile eyes, my poor Segoffin, so I see you exactly as you are. I certainly regret the accident exceedingly, and I truly hope this will be the last. Did monsieur have a satisfactory trip, and is he well?"
"Perfectly."
"And his fits of despondency when he thinks of madame's death?"
"He has them still. He shuts himself up alone for several hours, and when he appears again one can see that he has been weeping."
"And his disposition?"
"I am a regular firebrand in comparison."
"Then he evinces no more temper while travelling than he does here?"
"Not a bit more."
"And really when one remembers what monsieur was a dozen years ago, Segoffin!"
"There is as much difference as there is between day and night."
"That reminds me that Mlle. Sabine had another of her nervous attacks to-day, when something reminded her of her poor mother's death. How fortunate it is that she did not recognise monsieur in his Breton costume on that terrible night. The poor child still believes that it was a stranger who killed her mother."
"And she must never be allowed to suspect anything to the contrary."
"The complete change in monsieur's character makes that a comparatively easy matter."
"All the effect of a business career. When monsieur lost his position after poor madame's death, he said to himself: 'I have barely enough to support my daughter for a few years. I was evidently not intended for a judicial career. I have a taste for commerce, so I will try commerce.' And a very wise decision it has proved on his part, for he has not only accumulated a handsome fortune for his daughter, but transformed himself into the most lamb-like of men, and you have commerce to thank for it all; for you must see for yourself that if a merchant went about beating his customers over the head and kicking them in the stomach, he wouldn't make many sales."
"You are and always will be the same exasperating creature, Segoffin!" exclaimed the housekeeper, impatiently. "Years of travel and business have made no change in you, mentally, understand; physically—it is different—"
"Hold, my ungrateful friend," said Segoffin, drawing a peculiarly shaped box from his pocket, and gallantly offering it to Suzanne. "This is the way in which I avenge myself for your abuse."
"What is it, Segoffin?"
"Some little tokens of friendly regard, for you know that in your secret heart you are really very fond of me."
But as the housekeeper opened the box, and unfolded a piece of paper in which the present was wrapped, she recoiled almost in terror.
"The paper is burnt at one end, and stained with blood at the other," she exclaimed, in dismay.
"Oh, yes," replied M. Cloarek's clerk, imperturbably, "it is a piece of—no matter what, that I used to light my candle with, and when I was wrapping the pin and the earrings up, I pricked my finger,—awkward as usual, you see."
The housekeeper took out a pair of enormous gold earrings, and a large gold pin ornamented with an anchor surmounted by a crown. We will here add, for the information of the reader, that in those days sailors in the royal navy of England still wore earrings, and fastened their woollen shirts with large gold or silver pins.
The housekeeper, more grateful for the kindly feeling than for the present itself, as she had no intention of dragging down her ears with these rings, fastened the pin in her dress.
"Really, you are too kind," she said. "These earrings and this pin, especially, are in perfect taste, and as we live so near the sea the selection of a pin surmounted with an anchor is extremely appropriate. But here, M. Traveller," continued Suzanne, taking the red worsted comforter she had been knitting from the table, "you see you are not the only person who thinks of the absent."
"What, Suzanne, this comforter—"
"Is intended to keep you warm and comfortable in the winter."
"Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, I shall never forget—"
But Segoffin's protestations of gratitude were, unfortunately, interrupted by the entrance of M. Cloarek and his daughter, arm in arm.
Yvon, who was now forty-two years of age, had changed very little in appearance. His hair was beginning to turn gray, and his skin was much sunburned; but he seemed to have gained in strength and vigour, his face was radiant, and his eyes were full of joyful tears.
"Come and let me take a good look at you, my child," he exclaimed, as he led his daughter to the light, and gazed at her with anxious tenderness, as if to satisfy himself that the health of this idolised child had improved since they parted; then, again enfolding her tenderly in his arms, he added:
"Ah, my beloved child, I can embrace you with a thankful heart, for I can see that you are much stronger than when I went away."
Then, addressing Dame Roberts for the first time, he said, with a friendly shake of the hand:
"I thank you with all my heart for your care and attentions, Suzanne, for I know how much you must have aided in Sabine's restoration to health."
And again turning to his daughter, Cloarek held out his arms.
"One more embrace, my child, one more!" he cried.
"Fathers and daughters as well as lovers like to be alone together after a long absence, my dear," Segoffin whispered to the housekeeper.
"You are right, Segoffin," replied Suzanne, starting toward the door.
"Ah, Suzanne, what a fine opportunity this would be for a tender interview if we wanted one," said M. Cloarek's clerk as he followed Dame Roberts into the adjoining room.
"Unfortunately love is blind, my poor Segoffin, and you are only half blind yet."
"That will not prevent you from becoming Madame Segoffin," responded our friend, in tones of the most profound conviction. "That which is to be, will be."
When Yvon found himself alone with his daughter, he embraced her again even more passionately than before, as if Dame Roberts's presence had been rather a constraint upon the transports of paternal tenderness hitherto; then making Sabine seat herself on an ottoman near him and taking both her hands in his, he asked:
"And now, how have you been feeling during the last three months, months which have seemed well-nigh interminable to me?"
"Remarkably well, father."
"You look much stronger, I think. Besides—"
"What, my dear father?"
"It may be only a doting father's fancy, fathers have so many of them, but—"
"Let me hear what it is, father."
"It seems to me that you are even prettier than when I went away."
"That must be a doting father's fancy, especially as it implies that I was pretty before you left."
"And who ever doubted it, mademoiselle?"
"I, myself, in the first place."
"Then you never see yourself, or your mirror is a poor one. The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that you look less childish, somehow, and that you have quite a grown-up air."
"How absurd, father! In what does this change consist?"
"I can hardly explain, for your features have not changed, thank Heaven! but there is an air of sweet and gentle dignity about you that I never noticed before, and an expression of serene happiness on your features."
"How could it be otherwise when you have returned, father? It is something better than joy, it is happiness I feel on seeing you again, and happiness inclines one to be rather quiet and serious, you know."
"If you go on talking in this way my eyes will be so full of tears I shall not be able to see you at all, so let us change the subject. You have been well, you say; that is the main thing, of course, but have you not been lonely and dull here, my poor child? The winter months are so gloomy in the country."
"I have not been lonely a single moment, father. Haven't I my books, and my piano, and my embroidery, and my walks to occupy me?"
"And Suzanne, I scarcely need ask if she has been kind to you?"
"As you know her so well you must know that she has been kindness itself."
"And—"
But Yvon stopped short.
He was on the point of asking Sabine if her nervousness was abating, and if the attacks to which she had been subject from childhood were becoming less frequent, but he feared he might sadden his daughter, and decided it would be better to question the housekeeper on the subject.
So, to cover his sudden pause, he said:
"So you really enjoy yourself here in the country, you say? You have but to express a wish, you know, my dearest. The sea air has been recommended for you, it is true, but the coasts of France are extensive and there is abundant room for choice, and if you prefer any other place—"
"No, father, this place suits me perfectly. The surroundings are delightful, and I feel so much at home here that it would be ungrateful in me to leave the place unless you desire it."
"You know very well that I only desire what you desire."
"That sounds very fine, father."
"What do you mean, my child?"
"I mean that your actions do not always correspond with your words."
"What actions?"
"You say that you only desire what I desire. Yet how often I have begged you to give up the journeys that keep you away from me so much of the time."
"That is different. It is really for your sake, my darling child. I have my reasons."
"Yes, I know, my poor, dear father. It is to enrich me that you devote so much time to your business. But what is the use of so much money? But you have told me nothing about yourself! What kind of a trip did you have this time?"
"A remarkably successful one."
"The roads were better this time, then, and you did not take cold? I am so glad, we had so many snow-storms last month. I used to say to Suzanne again and again while we were sitting by the fire warm and comfortable, 'I am afraid my poor dear father is shivering with cold and making only a couple of miles an hour on account of the snow.'"
"Don't worry any more, my dear child. The trip is over now, and it was not only less fatiguing than usual, but unusually profitable."
"Is that really so? Then why was your return so long delayed, father?"
"A complication of business interests, that is all."
"If you knew how uneasy I always am during your absence! It is foolish, I know, but I shall be spared all these fears hereafter, for you intend to keep your promise, do you not?"
"What promise?"
"Not to travel, or, rather, not to leave me any more."
"I promised you on condition that no unforeseen circumstance—"
"No excuses, now. You will remain with me?"
"Always."
"Will you swear it?"
"By a father's love."
"Ah, I know what happiness is now," cried Sabine, throwing herself on her father's neck, "and yet, I have no words to tell you how happy I am, so, to reward you—"
"Well," said Cloarek, smiling, but deeply moved by the touching expression of his daughter's features, "so, to reward me—"
"I am going to ask a favour of you, as you are always reproaching me for never asking for anything."
"You could not please me more, my dear child. Well, let me hear what it is. What have you to ask of me?"
"Your protection and aid."
"For whom?"
"For a person who is worthy of it, and of whom Suzanne, too, intends to speak to you. But you see how jealous I am, I wish to be the first to recommend my protégé."
"The protégé of both of you, then?"
"Yes, both of us."
"Then you are tolerably certain of having your request granted. But what does the person desire?"
"Oh, he doesn't dare to ask or even desire anything. He is so timid. That is the reason Suzanne and I both resolved to ask for him. His position is so interesting and so trying!"
"My poor, tender-hearted child, how deeply in earnest you are, and how you are blushing! I am sure the person you have in mind must be both very deserving and very unfortunate."
"Yes, father, and when one sees a person every day, and thus learns to know and appreciate him, one's interest naturally increases."
"But of whom are you speaking, my child?"
"Of M. Onésime."
"And who is M. Onésime? Onésime, Onésime,—I have heard the name before, it seems to me."
"M. Onésime is Suzanne's nephew."
"Ah, yes, I recollect now. She has often spoken of him. He is the son of the sister she lost a couple of years ago."
"Yes, my dear father, he is an orphan. He had a government clerkship at Lille, but he was obliged to give that up, and as he could not secure any other situation there, Suzanne sent for him to come here and stay until he could find something to do."
"What, he is here?"
"Yes, father."
"He is living here in this house?"
"He has been living here for the last two months."
"Why are you blushing again?"
"But I am not blushing, father, I assure you."
"Surely, my dear child, you cannot suppose that I would be displeased because our friend Suzanne, to whom we owe so much, has entertained her nephew here, especially as he must be a well-behaved boy, or Suzanne would not have kept him with her."
"You must see him, father, and then you can judge for yourself."
"But how did he happen to lose his place?"
"He was a copyist, but his sight is so bad that it interfered with his work, and they dismissed him. You can imagine, my dear father, how painful his present position is to him, for he has a good education, and cannot bear to be idle. His defective vision will make it very difficult for him to secure any position, I fear; so, father, I have been counting, that is to say, Suzanne and I have been counting on you to assist and advise M. Onésime. I am sure when you see him and know him, you will do anything in the world for him, he is so kind and good, and you will pity him and love him so much."
It is impossible to describe the naïve and touching manner in which Sabine uttered these last words, her changing colour and gently heaving breast betraying the lively interest she felt in her protégé.
Cloarek stood silent and thoughtful for a moment. He was beginning to understand the change he had noticed in his daughter's manner and expression. At last the young girl, surprised and somewhat alarmed by Yvon's silence, asked:
"Why do you not answer me, my dear father?"
"Tell me, my child, since Suzanne's nephew has been living here, what has he done? What kind of a life has he led?"
"The same life we have led, father. When we go out to walk, he goes with us; if we remain at home, he remains. We make him read to us a good deal,—he reads so well and with so much expression. Sometimes we play duets together, for he is an excellent musician. He is very well up, too, in history, and it is very pleasant and instructive to hear him talk on such subjects, and lastly, he is always trying to do us some little service, though he doesn't always succeed, for his poor sight makes him very awkward. But that is his only fault, my dear father," added Sabine, with charming ingenuousness, "and though he surely cannot be held accountable for it, Suzanne is pitiless toward it, for she is always making fun of him."
"You do not make fun of him, I am sure."
"It would be cruel in me to do that, father, for he tries to be the first to laugh at his mishaps, though they worry him terribly. It is so sad to be almost blind. And this very evening—you can judge from that how courageous he is—he scalded his hand nearly to the bone with boiling water. You will see, father, what a dreadful burn it was. Well, for all that, M. Onésime had self-control and courage enough not only to make no ado about it, but also to go on with his reading as if nothing had happened, so it was only by the merest chance that we discovered the accident nearly an hour afterward."
"Really, M. Onésime seems to be quite a hero."
"A hero; no, father, for, as we were saying this evening, only persons who kill and spill blood are called heroes, while M. Onésime—"
"Spills boiling water."
"Why, father!"
"Why do you look at me so reproachfully?"
"It seems strange that you, too, who are always so just—"
"Why, what great injustice have I been guilty of, my child?"
"You are making light of a very serious matter, father, for even Suzanne turned pale with fright when she saw his burn, though she is always ridiculing him in the most merciless manner. And why? Because he has such a horror of everything that is cruel and bloodthirsty. Only this evening we had quite a discussion with Suzanne, and M. Onésime was on my side, and he is on my side only when I am right, so I feel sure in advance that you will agree with us."
"What was the subject of this discussion, my child?"
"M. Onésime was reading, in that newspaper you see over there on the table, an account of the escape of a famous privateer named Captain l'Endurci. You have read it too, perhaps, father."
"No," replied Cloarek, repressing an involuntary movement of surprise and alarm; "no, my child. Well, what do you and M. Onésime think of the corsair?"
"His cruelty shocked us, dear father; for would you believe it? to regain his liberty he killed two men and severely wounded a third. Suzanne approved his conduct, claiming that he had behaved in a very brave and heroic manner, but M. Onésime said, and this proves the generosity of his heart—"
"Well, what did M. Onésime say?"
"That he would rather remain a prisoner all his life than owe his freedom to the death of another person. Don't you think that M. Onésime and I are right?"
"I hardly know what to say, my child. A humdrum merchant like myself is not a very good judge of such matters. Still, it seems to me that you and M. Onésime are rather hard on the poor privateer."
"But, father, read the frightful story, and you will see—"
"But listen, this privateer had a family, perhaps, that he tenderly loved, and that he was hoping soon to see again, and in his despair at finding himself a prisoner—"
"A family! Men who live in the midst of carnage have families that they love tenderly? Is that possible, father?"
"Why, do not even wolves love their young?"
"I don't know anything about that; but if they do love them, they love them after the manner of wolves, I suppose, bringing them a piece of their bleeding prey when they are little, and leading them out to attack and devour the poor lambs when they get older."
A bitter expression flitted over Cloarek's face; then he answered, smiling:
"After all, you and M. Onésime may be right. If you would talk to me about silks and merino I might hold my own, but I am not much of a judge of privateers and privateering."
"I was sure you would agree with us. How could a person who is as generous, compassionate, and affectionate as you are think otherwise? or, rather, I could not think differently from what you do, my dear father, for if I have a horror of everything that is cruel and wicked, if I love everything that is good and beautiful, is it not to you and your example I owe it, as well as to the precepts of my poor mother whom you loved so devotedly? for not a day passes that Suzanne does not relate some instance of your deep affection for her."
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper, candle in hand, who, to Yvon's great surprise, announced:
"I am very sorry, but it is ten o'clock, monsieur."
"Well, what of it, Suzanne?"
"It is the hour the doctor said mademoiselle must go to bed, you know."
"Give me just a quarter of an hour more, Suzanne?"
"Not a single minute, mademoiselle."
"On the evening of my return, you might permit this slight dissipation, it seems to me, Suzanne."
"Heaven be thanked, mademoiselle will have plenty of opportunity to see you now, but allowing her to sit up later than ten o'clock is not to be thought of. She would be sure to be tired out, if not ill, to-morrow."
"In that case, I have nothing to say except good night, my dear child," said Cloarek, taking his daughter's face in his two hands, and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. "Sleep well, my dearest, and may the morning find you well and happy."
"You need feel no anxiety on that score, my dear father. Now I know that you are here beside me, and that you will be with me, not only to-morrow but always, I shall go to sleep with that blissful thought on my mind, and I shall sleep on and on and on like a dormouse—that is the word, isn't it, Suzanne? So good night, my dear father, good night, good night."
"I am sure Suzanne is going to speak to you about M. Onésime. How glad I am I got ahead of her. Good night, dearest father, good night."
"Good night, and pleasant dreams!"
"It will be the best night I have passed for many a month. Good night, my beloved father, good night."
"Good night, my child."
Then turning to the housekeeper, Cloarek added:
"Come back presently, Suzanne, I want to talk with you."
"Very well, monsieur; I have something I wish to speak to you about, too."
When he was left alone, Cloarek began to walk the room. As he passed the table, the Journal of the Empire attracted his attention. He picked it up and glanced over the article to which his daughter had alluded.
"How indiscreet in Verduron to make a strictly confidential letter public, and without warning me!" he exclaimed, evidently much annoyed. "I have always feared that man's stupidity and greed would cause me trouble sooner or later. Fortunately, I have concealed my place of abode from him. To think of this happening now, when my child's feelings and mental condition make dissimulation more imperative than ever. Poor child, such a discovery would kill her!"
At that very instant the housekeeper reëntered the room.
"My dear Suzanne," said M. Cloarek, "first of all, I want to thank you for the excellent care you have taken of my daughter."
"Poor Mlle. Sabine, didn't I nurse her when she was a baby, and isn't she almost like my own child to me?"
"You have been a second mother to my child, I know. And it is on account of the tender affection you have always manifested toward her that I wish to talk with you on a very important matter."
"What is it, monsieur?"
"You sent for your nephew in my absence. He has been here nearly two months, I understand."
"Yes, and it is in regard to the poor fellow that I wish to talk with you this evening, monsieur. I will explain—"
"Sabine has told me all about it."
"Great Heavens! you are not angry, I hope."
"Not angry, Suzanne, but greatly worried and alarmed."
"Alarmed! Alarmed about what?"
"The effect of your nephew's presence in this house."
"Had I foreseen that it would be disagreeable to you, I would not have sent for the poor boy; but he was so unhappy, and I knew your kindness of heart so well, that I thought I might take the liberty—"
"You have rendered too valuable service to each and every member of my family, Suzanne, for your relatives not to have a right to my interest and assistance. What I reproach you for is a great imprudence."
"Excuse me, monsieur, but I do not understand."
"Your nephew is young?"
"Twenty-five."
"He is well educated?"
"Too well for his position, monsieur. My poor sister and her husband made great sacrifices for him. His sight being so poor, they gave him an excellent education in the hope he might enter the clergy, but Onésime felt that he had no calling that way, so there was nothing for him to do but secure a clerkship."
"I know the rest, but how about his personal appearance? What kind of a looking young man is he?"
"The poor fellow is neither handsome nor ugly, monsieur. He has a very kind and gentle manner, but his extreme near-sightedness gives him a rather scared look. He is really the best-hearted boy that ever lived. Ask mademoiselle, and see what she will tell you."
"Really, Suzanne, such blindness on your part amazes me."
"Such blindness, monsieur?"
"Is it possible, Suzanne, that you, who are a person of so much experience and good sense, have not felt, I will not say the impropriety, but the grave imprudence there is in having your nephew under the same roof with my daughter, and allowing them to live in the extremely intimate relations of such a secluded existence as you lead here?"
"I know that I am only a servant, monsieur, and that my nephew—"
"That is not the question at all. Have not I and my daughter always striven to prove that we regarded you as a friend, and not as a servant?"
"Then I do not understand the cause of your reproaches."
"And that is very unfortunate, for if you had been more clear-sighted, you would long since have discovered what has happened."
"Good Heavens! what has happened, monsieur?"
"Sabine loves your nephew."
"Mademoiselle!"
"She loves him, I tell you."
"Mademoiselle loves Onésime! Monsieur cannot be in earnest. It is impossible."
"Impossible, and why?"
"Because the poor boy is as timid as a girl; because he is not at all good-looking; because he sees very badly, a defect that makes him commit twenty blunders a day, at which mademoiselle is not unfrequently the first to laugh. He does not resemble a hero of romance in the least. Oh, no, monsieur, you need feel no anxiety on that score. Mademoiselle has always been very kind and considerate to Onésime, because he is my nephew, and she pitied him, but—"
"Ah, blind woman that you are, not to have foreseen that, in a person of Sabine's character, in a person of her extreme sensibility and angelic kindness of heart, pity was almost certain to lead to a more tender sentiment,—as it has!"
"Can it be possible that mademoiselle would condescend to look at a poor fellow like Onésime?"
"It is precisely because he is poor and helpless and timid, and because his infirmity places him in such an exceptional and painful position, that Sabine was almost certain to love him, and you, who know her as well as I do, should have foreseen this. I hope to Heaven that your blindness may not prove disastrous in its consequences."
"Ah, monsieur," responded the housekeeper, contritely, "your words enlighten me, now, when it is too late. But no, I cannot believe what you have just told me. Mlle. Sabine has not admitted that she loves Onésime, has she?"
"Oh, no; she has not admitted it, but I am satisfied of the fact. She is so candid and so sincere that one can read her heart as one reads an open book. She does love him, I tell you, and this destroys all the plans I had formed. But what is the matter? Why are you sobbing so? Suzanne, Suzanne, get up," cried Cloarek, seeing the housekeeper throw herself at his feet.
"I have such a dreadful fear."
"Explain."
"Good Heavens, monsieur, what if you should suppose that in asking my nephew here I was actuated by a desire to interest mademoiselle in him, and so bring about a marriage between them!"
"Suzanne, you do me a gross injustice by supposing me capable of such a suspicion."
"Tell me, oh, tell me that you do not believe me capable of such a thing."
"I repeat that you have been thoughtless and imprudent. That is all, and that is enough; but as for accusing you of any such shameful plotting, that would be utterly absurd on my part. I understand, too, how certain peculiarities in your nephew's character seemed a sufficient guarantee against any such possibility, and that you never suspected that any such danger could threaten my daughter."
"Alas! that is the truth, monsieur. I didn't consider Onésime any more dangerous than an infant."
"I believe you, but the evil is done, nevertheless."
"But it can be repaired. Onésime shall leave the house at daybreak, to-morrow morning, and never set foot in it again."
"And Sabine? His sudden departure would grieve her terribly, it might even kill her, weak and nervous as she is,—for she is her poor dear mother over again, in her sensitiveness and extreme susceptibility."
"Mon Dieu, I see, I see! How culpable I have been!" sobbed the governess. "What are we to do, monsieur? What are we to do?"
"I have no idea myself."
"Cloarek paced the room in silence several minutes, then he asked, suddenly:
"Where is your nephew?"
"In the Blue Boom, monsieur. I told him to wait there until I could let him know the result of my interview with you."
"Send him to me."
"Here, monsieur?"
"Yes."
"Oh, monsieur, have pity on him, have pity on him, I beseech you!" cried Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly. "I swear to you that it was not his fault. The poor boy is innocent of any wrong-doing, even in thought. He hasn't the slightest suspicion of all this, I am sure. Have pity on him, I implore you!"
"Send him to me, I say."
"He shall leave the house this very night, monsieur, I swear it!"
"And my daughter! You want her to die of grief, perhaps!"
"One word, monsieur. It may be that mademoiselle's affection for Onésime is only a youthful fancy that time and absence will soon cause her to forget."
"But what if she does not forget it? What if this love is really deep and true, as it must be, if it has once really taken root in a heart like Sabine's? No, no, it would be an insult to the poor child to believe her capable of loving in that way. She is her mother over again, I tell you."
"Alas! monsieur, what you say nearly breaks my heart, and yet I am forced to admit that you are right. I never realised, until this very moment, all the possible consequences of this deplorable intimacy; for, unfortunately, this is not the only thing that must be considered."
"What do you mean?"
"Monsieur—"
"Speak, speak, I say."
"What if,—and it would not be his fault, remember, monsieur,—what if he should not share the affection he has inspired in mademoiselle—"
"Damnation!" exclaimed Cloarek.
Then after a moment's silence he said, sternly:
"Send your nephew here."
"Do not ask me to do that, monsieur!" pleaded Suzanne, in terror.
"Obey me, do you hear?"
"Not if you kill me, monsieur," replied Suzanne, resolutely; "no, he shall not come. I will make him leave the house. I will not expose him to—"
"To what? To my violence, my anger, I suppose you mean. Don't you see that my daughter's love for him renders him sacred in my eyes?"
"But if he does not love her, monsieur?"
"If he does not love her?" exclaimed Cloarek, becoming frightfully pale; then, without adding a word, and before the housekeeper, overcome with consternation, could make so much as a movement to prevent it, he rushed out of the parlour and into the room where Onésime was waiting to hear the result of his aunt's interview with the master of the house.
To open the door of this room, and close and lock it behind him, to prevent Suzanne from entering and Onésime from leaving it, was only the work of an instant, and he thus found himself alone with Suzanne's nephew.
On hearing the violent opening and closing of the door, Onésime sprang up surprised and alarmed, for he was expecting to see only his aunt, and the heavy tread of the person who had just entered so boisterously indicated the presence of a stranger.
Cloarek, who had recovered the composure which had momentarily deserted him, scrutinised Onésime with anxious curiosity. At the first glance the countenance of the young man seemed gentle and prepossessing, but soon, forgetting the infirmity that prevented him from gaining more than a vague idea of objects a few feet from him, and seeing him gaze at him intently without giving any sign of recognition, he began to consider Onésime's manner extremely insolent, even audacious.
Suzanne's nephew, surprised at the prolonged silence, advanced a step or two in the hope of recognising the intruder, and at last asked, hesitatingly:
"Who is it?"
Cloarek, still forgetting the young man's infirmity, thought the question impertinent, and replied:
"Who is it! It is the master of the house, I would have you know."
"M. Cloarek!" exclaimed Onésime, recoiling a little, for the speaker's manner and tone indicated only too plainly that his, Onésime's, presence in the house was unwelcome to Sabine's father, so after a moment he said, in a trembling, almost timid voice:
"In complying with the wishes of my aunt, I believed, monsieur, that her request was made with your approval, or at least that you would not disapprove her kindness to me. But for that, I should not have thought of accepting her invitation."
"I hope so, indeed."
"I must therefore beg you to excuse an indiscretion of which I have been the involuntary accomplice, monsieur. I will leave your house to-morrow."
"And where will you go? What will you do?" demanded Cloarek, abruptly. "What will become of you afterward?"
"Not understanding the feeling that prompts these questions, you cannot be surprised that I hesitate to answer them," responded Onésime, with gentle dignity.
"My feeling may be kindly, and it may be the opposite,—that depends upon circumstances. I shall know presently, however."
"You seem to constitute yourself the sole arbiter of my destiny, monsieur!" exclaimed Onésime, with respectful firmness. "By what right, may I ask?"
"On the contrary, you seem to have made yourself the arbiter of my destiny," exclaimed Cloarek, impetuously.
"I do not understand you, monsieur."
"Do you dare to look me in the face and answer me in that way?"
"Look you in the face, monsieur? I wish that I could, but alas! at this distance I am utterly unable to distinguish your features."
"True, monsieur," replied Cloarek, with much less brusqueness, "I had forgotten your infirmity. But though you cannot see, you may rest assured that I have an eye that nothing escapes. It is one advantage that I have over you, and one that I shall profit by, I assure you."
"I assure you that this advantage will be of very little service to you so far as I am concerned. I have never had anything to conceal in my life."
This odd mixture of frankness and gentleness, of melancholy and dignity, touched Cloarek; nevertheless he tried to resist its softening influence.
"I am blessed with a very small amount of penetration, monsieur," continued Onésime, "but your questions and the tone in which they are asked, as well as some of your remarks, lead me to suppose that you have a grievance against me, though I am unfortunately ignorant of the cause."
"You love my daughter?" said Cloarek, gazing searchingly at the youth as if resolved to read his inmost thoughts.
Onetime turned red and pale by turns, and felt so much like falling that he was obliged to reseat himself at a small table and bury his face in his hands.
In his attempt to cover his face the handkerchief that was bound around his hand fell off, disclosing to view the terrible burn he had received, and though Cloarek was accustomed to seeing all sorts of hurts, the grave nature of this one made him shudder and say to himself:
"Poor wretch, how he must suffer! A person must have a good deal of courage to endure such torture uncomplainingly. Such courage, combined with such amiability of character, as well as quiet dignity, at least indicates nobility of heart."
Seeing how completely overcome Onésime seemed to be, Yvon asked, in rather more friendly tones:
"How am I to interpret your silence? You do not answer me."
"What can I say, monsieur?"
"You confess it, then?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And is my daughter ignorant of this love?"
"Ignorant of it! Why, monsieur, I would rather die than reveal it to her. I thought I had concealed my secret in the depths of my innermost soul, so I have no idea how you can have discovered what I have almost succeeded in hiding from myself."
"Why did you not endeavour to overcome a feeling that could only make you unhappy?"
"Believing every one ignorant of it, I abandoned myself to it with delight. Up to this time I have only known misfortune. This love is the first happiness of my life, as it will be the only consolation of the dreary destiny that awaits me."
"You would be separated from my daughter sooner or later. Did that thought never occur to you?"
"No, monsieur, I did not stop to reflect. I think I loved merely for the happiness of loving. I loved without hope, but also without fear and without remorse."
"So you were not even deterred by a fear that I would find out about this love some day or other?"
"I did not reflect at all, as I told you just now. I loved only for the pleasure of loving. Ah, monsieur, when one is as I am, almost entirely isolated from external objects and the diversion of mind they cause, it is easy to yield oneself entirely to the solitary enjoyment of a single, all-absorbing passion."
"But if your sight is so bad, you can scarcely know how my daughter looks."
"During all the weeks I have been living in this house, I never saw Mlle. Sabine distinctly until this evening."
"And why this evening rather than any other evening?"
"Because she insisted on aiding my aunt in dressing a severe burn on my hand, and, while she was doing this, she came near enough for me to be able to distinguish her features perfectly."
"In that case, how did you come to love her?"
"How did I come to love her? Why, what I love in her," exclaimed Onésime, "is her noble and generous heart, the sweetness of her disposition, the charms of her mind. What do I love in her? Why, her sweet and soothing presence and her voice,—her voice, so gentle and touching when she utters words of friendly interest or consolation."
"Then the thought that you might become Sabine's husband some day has never occurred to you?"
"I love her too much for that, monsieur."
"What do you mean?"
"You forget, monsieur, that I am half blind, and that, by reason of this infirmity, I am doomed to ridicule, to poverty, or a humiliating idleness. I, who can never be anything but a burden to those who feel an interest in me, the idea that I should have the audacity—No, no, I repeat it, I even swear, that I have loved and still love Mlle. Sabine as one loves the good and the beautiful, without any other hope than of the heavenly felicity the love of the good and the beautiful inspires. This, monsieur, is what I have felt and still feel. If my frankness is convincing, deign to promise me, monsieur, that I shall at least take your esteem with me when I leave this house."
"You have won this esteem; you deserve it, Onésime," replied Cloarek, earnestly; "and after this assurance on my part, you will permit me to ask what you intend to do after leaving here."
"I shall endeavour to find some employment similar to that I was engaged in before; but, however modest and laborious my situation in life may be, if it enables me to earn my living, it is all I ask."
"But are you not afraid you will lose this situation for the same reasons you did before?"
"Alas! monsieur, if I allowed myself to think of all the trials and disappointments that are, undoubtedly, in store for me, I should become utterly disheartened," answered Onésime, sadly.
"It was not to discourage you that I ventured this reminder. On the contrary, I wish, and certainly hope to find the means of helping you to escape from a position which must be unspeakably trying."
"Ah, monsieur, how kind you are! How have I deserved—"
The conversation was here interrupted by several hurried knocks at the door, and Suzanne's voice was heard, crying:
"Open the door, monsieur, for pity's sake!"
Cloarek instantly complied with the request.
"What is the matter?" he exclaimed, seeing Suzanne standing there, pale and terrified.
"Thérèse was just closing the windows in the dining-room, when she saw, in the moonlight, two men peering over the garden wall."
"Thérèse is a coward, afraid of her own shadow, I expect."
"Oh, no, monsieur, Thérèse did see the two men distinctly. They were evidently about to enter the garden, when the noise she made in opening the window frightened them away."
"These fears seem to me greatly exaggerated," replied Cloarek; "still, take good care not to say anything about this to Sabine to-morrow. It will only make the poor child terribly uneasy. It is a splendid moonlight night, and I will go out into the garden and satisfy myself that everything is all right."