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 n.o.bility of heart."

Seeing how completely overcome Onesime 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 pa.s.sion."

"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 Onesime, "is her n.o.ble 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, Onesime," replied Cloarek, earnestly; "and after this a.s.surance 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 Onesime, 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.

"Therese was just closing the windows in the dining-room, when she saw, in the moonlight, two men peering over the garden wall."

"Therese is a coward, afraid of her own shadow, I expect."

"Oh, no, monsieur, Therese 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."

"Go out into the garden!" cried Suzanne, in great alarm. "Don't think of such a thing. It would be very dangerous, I am sure."

"That is all nonsense, my dear Suzanne," said Cloarek, turning toward the door. "You are as great a coward as Therese."

"First, let me go and wake Segoffin, monsieur," pleaded Suzanne. "I tried before I came to you, but this time I will knock so loud that he can't help hearing me."

"And at the same time wake my daughter and frighten her nearly to death by all this hubbub in the house."

"You are right, monsieur, and yet you ought not to venture out entirely alone."

"What are you doing, Onesime?" asked Cloarek, seeing the younger man making his way toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"I am going with you, monsieur."

"And what for?"

"My aunt thinks there may be some danger, monsieur."

"And of what a.s.sistance could you be?" asked Yvon, not curtly or scornfully this time, for Onesime's devotion touched him.