"What was the subject of this discussion, my child?"

"M. Onesime 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. Onesime 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. Onesime said, and this proves the generosity of his heart--"

"Well, what did M. Onesime 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. Onesime 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. Onesime 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. Onesime 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, compa.s.sionate, 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 pa.s.ses 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."

Then she whispered:

"I am sure Suzanne is going to speak to you about M. Onesime. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 reentered the room.

CHAPTER XII.

SUZANNE'S ENLIGHTENMENT.

"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."