"I promised you on condition that no unforeseen circ.u.mstance--"

"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 protege."

"The protege 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. Onesime."

"And who is M. Onesime? Onesime, Onesime,--I have heard the name before, it seems to me."

"M. Onesime 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sist and advise M. Onesime. 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 nave 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 protege.

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. Onesime 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. Onesime 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. Onesime--"

"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. Onesime 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."