"Certainly; but this duty devolves upon the man."

"Yes, when he is able to fulfil this duty; when he is not, it devolves upon the wife."

"If she is foolish enough, I repeat, to accept such a life of self-sacrifice and weighty responsibility."

"Foolish?"

"Idiotic, rather. Don't look at me so indignantly."

"Listen to me, father."

"I am listening."

"You have reared me with the utmost kindness and devotion; you have antic.i.p.ated my every wish; you have surrounded me with every comfort; and for my sake you have exposed yourself to all the fatigue and discomfort of long business trips. Am I not right?"

"It was not only a pleasure, but my duty to do these things for you, my dear child."

"A duty?"

"The most sacred of all duties."

"To protect me--to be my guide and my support, you mean, do you not?"

"Precisely. It is the duty of every parent."

"That is exactly what I was coming at," said Sabine, with amusing _navete_. "It is a father's duty to protect his child, you say?"

"Certainly."

"But, father, suppose that you should meet with an accident during one of your journeys; suppose, for instance, that you should lose your sight, would I be foolish or idiotic if I did everything in my power to repay you for all you have done for me, and to act, in my turn, the part of guide, support, and protector? Our roles would be reversed, as you say. Still, what daughter would not be proud and happy to do for her father what I would do for you? Ah, well, why should not a wife manifest the same devotion toward her husband that a daughter manifests toward her father? I am sure you will not be able to refute that argument, my dear father."

"But your comparison, though extremely touching, is by no means just. In consequence of some misfortune, or some deplorable accident, a girl might find herself obliged to become the support and protector of her father. In such a case, it is very grand and n.o.ble in her to devote her life and energies to him; but she has not deliberately chosen her father, so she is performing a sacred duty, while the woman who is free to choose would, I repeat,--don't glare at me so,--be a fool, yes, an idiot, to select for a husband--"

"An unfortunate man who needs to be surrounded with the tenderest solicitude," cried Sabine, interrupting her father. "So you really believe that a woman would be committing an act of folly if she made such a choice. Say that again, father, if you want me to believe it,--you, who have so generously devoted your life to your child, who have been so lenient to her many weaknesses, who have made every sacrifice for her,--tell me that it would be arrant folly to devote one's life to an unfortunate creature to whom Fate has been most unkind; tell me that it would be arrant folly to cling to him because an infirmity kept everybody else aloof from him; tell me this, father, and I will believe you."

"No, my generous, n.o.ble-hearted child, I do not say that. I should be lying if I did," exclaimed Cloarek, quite carried away by Sabine's generous enthusiasm; "no, I cannot doubt the divine happiness that one finds in devoting oneself to a person one loves; no, I cannot doubt the attraction that courage and resignation under suffering exert over all superior natures."

"So you see that my dream is not as extraordinary as you thought, after all," replied the girl, smiling.

"You are a doughty antagonist, and I will admit that I am beaten, or rather convinced, if you can answer one more objection as successfully."

"And what is that?"

"When a man loves, he loves body and soul; you must admit that. The contemplation of the charming face of a beloved wife is as sweet to a man as the realisation of her merits and virtues. Now, in a long conversation that I had last evening with M. Onesime, at your recommendation, remember, I asked him if he could see a person a few feet off, distinctly. He replied that he could not, and remarked in this connection that he had seen you plainly but once, and that was yesterday when you were a.s.sisting Suzanne in binding up his hand. The most inconceivable thing in your dream-marriage, after all, is a husband who spends his life near his wife without ever seeing her except by accident, as it were."

"Ah, well, father, I, for my part, think such a state of affairs is not without its advantages, after all."

"Really, that is going a little too far, I think."

"I will prove it to you if you wish."

"I defy you to do it."

"But, father, I have read somewhere that nothing could be more sacrilegious than to leave always exposed to view the portraits of one's loved ones; for the eye finally becomes so accustomed to these lineaments that the effect is perceptibly impaired."

"There may be some truth in this remark, but I do not perceive any special advantage to be derived from it so far as you are concerned."

"But if, on the contrary, these portraits are in a case that is opened only when one desires to contemplate the beloved features, the impression produced upon you is powerful in proportion to the rarity of the treat."

"Your reasoning is fairly good, to say the least; but how about the other party, the person that can see? She will be obliged to close her eyes, I suppose, and keep them closed, to prevent her husband's features from losing their charm."

"Are you really in earnest in making this objection?"

"Certainly I am."

"Then I will merely say in reply that, though I put myself in M.

Onesime's place for a moment, that is no reason why I should renounce my own excellent eye-sight, for I am not in the least afraid that I should ever tire of looking at my husband any more than I tire of looking at you, my dear father, and I know I could gaze at your face a hundred years without growing weary of reading on your n.o.ble features all your devoted tenderness for me," added Sabine, kissing her father fondly.

"My dear, dear child," murmured Cloarek, responding to his daughter's fervent caress, "how can I hope to contend successfully with your heart and reason. I must acknowledge myself beaten, I suppose, and confess that your dream is not so unreasonable, perhaps, after all, and that a woman might perhaps marry such a terribly near-sighted man if she really loved him. Nevertheless, in spite of your romantic way of regarding poor Onesime's infirmity, I should infinitely prefer--But, now I think of it--"

"Well, father?"

"During my travels I have heard a good deal about a young and wonderfully skilful surgeon,--a terrible gourmand, too, they say he is, by the way. It is his only fault, I understand. This young surgeon established himself in Paris a few years ago, and his fame has grown, until he is now considered one of the greatest celebrities of the scientific world. It is possible that he may be able to restore this poor fellow's sight."

"Do you really suppose there is any hope of that?" cried Sabine.

"I cannot say, my child, but I know several wonderful cures that Doctor Gasterini has effected, and I will write to him this very day. I am going out for a little while, but I shall be back in an hour, and as I shall want to see you as soon as I return, you had better wait for me here."

On leaving Sabine, Cloarek went up to Onesime's room, and, desiring that their conversation should be of the most secret character and free from any possibility of interruption, he asked that young man to accompany him on a promenade he intended to take on the beach before dinner.

CHAPTER XV.

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.

Soon after M. Cloarek left the house in company with Onesime, Segoffin might have been seen standing on the garden terrace with an old spy-gla.s.s levelled on an object that seemed to be absorbing his attention and exciting his surprise and curiosity to the highest pitch.

The object was a vessel that he had just discovered in the offing and that elicited the following comments as he watched its evolutions.

"It seems preposterous! Am I dreaming, or is that really our brig? It must be! That rigging, that mast, those lines, are certainly hers, and yet it cannot be. That is not her hull. With her barbette guns she sat as low in the water as a whaler. I don't see a single gun poking its nose out of this craft, though. No, no, it is not, of course it is not.

This vessel is painted a dark gray, while the _h.e.l.l-hound_ was black with scarlet stripes. And yet that big sail perched so rakishly over the stem, that rigging fine as a spider's web, there never was a vessel built except the _h.e.l.l-hound_ that could carry such a stretch of canvas as that. But what an a.s.s I am! She is putting about, so there's a sure way of satisfying myself of the ident.i.ty I wish to verify, as M. Yvon used to say when he wore the robes of office and amused himself by throwing chief justices out of the window,--that is to read the name on her stern, as I shall be able to do in a minute or two, and--"

But Segoffin's soliloquy was here interrupted by a familiar tap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, he found himself face to face with Suzanne.

"That which is done can not be undone, but the devil take you, my dear, for disturbing me just at this time!" exclaimed M. Cloarek's head gunner, raising his gla.s.s to his eye again.