"What I want of him concerns n.o.body but him and me, and I am not disposed to tell it to you."

"Did monsieur send you on some errand, and have you brought back an answer?"

"He didn't send me anywhere; but I have something to say to him."

"Monsieur is in his study; he doesn't receive anyone."

"But he must receive me!"

"When monsieur refuses every day to receive visits from his friends, I don't imagine he is likely to give preference to a messenger!"

Sans-Cravate spat on his hands and rubbed them together, then shook his fist in the servant's face.

"Do you see that?" he said; "if you don't do my errand right away, I'll smash your nose so that I'll defy you to blow it!"

Sans-Cravate's eyes were so eloquent of his determination, that the servant, having involuntarily stepped back, deemed it prudent not to resist him, and decided to go to his master, to whom he said:

"There's a very savage and rough-mannered messenger outside, who insists on speaking to monsieur. Shall I turn him out of doors?"

Monsieur Vermoncey thought that the man had probably come to bring him news of Paul, for whom he had found a place, and whom he had sought in vain at his usual stand.

"Show him in," he said.

This command was most unwelcome to the servant, who returned to Sans-Cravate and said sullenly:

"Come in; monsieur consents to receive you;--these masters are most astonishing with their whims."

Sans-Cravate trembled slightly, but did not hesitate; he entered the study and found himself in Monsieur Vermoncey's presence.

Albert's father was seated in front of the fire; he turned his head and scrutinized Sans-Cravate, who, after opening the door, stood on the threshold, afraid to go forward.

"Well, what do you want with me? speak!"

Sans-Cravate felt that his throat was parched and that he had no saliva in his mouth; some instants pa.s.sed before he could articulate a word, but at last he stammered:

"Monsieur, it is--it is about--about monsieur your son."

"My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, who instantly recalled the first time that Paul had come to see him, and feared that another duel was on the carpet. "My son--what has happened to him?--is he in danger? Speak!"

"No, monsieur; no, he is not in danger; and when I say that it's about him--I should say that I have come on my own account, that it's myself who---- _Sacredie!_--excuse me, monsieur, but I am so worked up--it ain't fear--but it makes me feel queer. One minute, monsieur; my mind is coming back, and, after all, why shouldn't I dare to speak to you? you are an honorable man. I'm a miserable fool to tremble so--now, it's all over!"

Monsieur Vermoncey looked at Sans-Cravate with more interest, and waited with some curiosity for him to explain himself.

"My name is etienne Renaud," the messenger continued, in a firm voice; "I come from Auvergne; I came to Paris to be a messenger, and they have given me the name of Sans-Cravate here; it's a nickname of no consequence, and I don't mind it. My regular stand is on the corner of Rue du Helder and the boulevard."

"I remember now that I have seen you there," said Monsieur Vermoncey, "and that you have a young man named Paul for your comrade. Have you come to give me news of him?"

Sans-Cravate made a wry face at the name of Paul, and continued:

"No, monsieur; no, it hasn't anything to do with him. I must tell you, monsieur, that I left a very pretty sister in Auvergne, who is seventeen years old now; a lady in Clermont took a fancy to her and insisted on taking her into her family, to give her an education, like a young lady.

My sister's an honest girl, d'ye see, monsieur; leastways, she was till the devil sent a young gentleman from Paris down that way, and he began to hang about the house. He saw my Liline and thought she was pretty--_dame!_ it would be hard for anyone not to think so,--the sweetest little face in Auvergne; and now she has distinguished manners, so that anyone would swear she was a princess! Well, monsieur, to cut it short, this young man--who's a good-looking fellow, too, worse luck! and all the women like him--well, he seduced my sister! The poor child! she believed in love right away, as you believe fine weather's coming when you see the first swallows. He told her a lot of things to turn her head, and made her believe my father had refused to give him her hand; which ain't true, I am sure, for my father loves her too dearly to refuse to give her to the man she loves. In short, he promised, swore, that he'd marry her, if she'd consent to come to Paris with him; and my sister believed it all, she never thought for a moment that the young man meant to deceive her, so she yielded to his entreaties. She came to Paris with her--her lover--I might as well say the word. And the young man who did all this is your son, monsieur, Monsieur Albert!"

"My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, fastening his eyes upon Sans-Cravate, unable to believe that he had heard aright. "My son has done that! Oh, no! you are mistaken; you have been misinformed."

"Oh! it's only too true, monsieur; there's no chance of any mistake. I know Monsieur Albert well; I've been his messenger a long while; and as he always spoke pleasantly to me, I liked him--yes, I was fond of him; his good humor, his pleasant manners, his happy disposition, perhaps his very faults--all fascinated me too. In fact, I would have jumped into the fire for him; and he knew it, and he always came for me when he had some shady errand to be done. I hadn't seen him for more than two months, and I'd concluded he was travelling somewhere, when he came after me at my stand about half-past nine this morning."

"This morning?"

"Yes, monsieur; it ain't an old story, you see.--'Sans-Cravate,' he says, 'I've brought a lovely girl back to Paris with me, but my father mustn't know anything about it. I took lodgings for her a long way off, on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain; but I have just found out that one of my father's intimate friends lives on that street now.'"

"True--Monsieur Delmas. Well?"

"'And so,' he went on, 'as I don't want to meet anybody I know when I go to see my young friend, I've hired another apartment, on Rue Grange-aux-Belles, near the ca.n.a.l.'--In short, monsieur, he employed me to move the furniture from Rue de Grenelle to the new lodgings in a great hurry, and to wait till he brought his lady there. I agreed, of course, and did what he told me to do. I finished the job before two o'clock, and I had gone out to rest a bit, for I was tired out, when the concierge came and told me they had arrived and the young man had gone right away again. I went to see the lady, to find out whether she was satisfied with the way I'd fixed her furniture. You can judge of my feelings when I recognized my sister Liline in the girl Monsieur Albert had abducted. She cried when she saw me, and kissed me, and begged me to forgive her; then she told me how it had all happened, just as I have told you; and she begged me not to get angry, because she is perfectly sure her lover will marry her as he has promised."

"My son has done that! abducted a virtuous girl! and seduced her! Oh!

that is very bad--it is----"

Monsieur Vermoncey did not finish his sentence, but hid his face in his hands.

"I am only a poor, uneducated messenger, monsieur. But I have my honor, and I care all the more for it, d'ye see, because it's all I've got. At first I cried with my sister, and broke her heart by telling her that her seducer was probably a fickle fellow who only intended to deceive her as he has a thousand other women; but she seems so convinced of his love; and then, she's so sweet and pretty, poor Liline! After all, why shouldn't Monsieur Albert love her sincerely? That thought brought back my courage, and I comforted her and made up my mind right off to come and tell you the whole story, because you're the young man's father, and it can't be fixed without your consent. I thought, monsieur, that you would listen to the voice of poor people who may be ruined by your son--but who can be made very happy by you, if you choose."

Sans-Cravate ceased to speak; he was satisfied with his performance. In truth, his sister's plight had made him almost eloquent; for we never lack moving words, words that go to the heart, when we follow the heart's promptings.

Monsieur Vermoncey said nothing, but seemed absorbed in thought. The messenger anxiously awaited the words that were to come forth from his mouth, and to decide his sister's fate; but he dared not urge him to speak, and his eyes alone bore witness to his impatience.

At last, Monsieur Vermoncey rose, went to Sans-Cravate, put his hand on his shoulder, and said:

"Come, my friend, let us try to forgive a young man's wrong-doing, all the consequences of which he failed to realize. I am rich; I will take it upon myself to look after your sister's future, and that of your whole family; your father, in his old age, shall have everything to make life pleasant, and----"

"What's that? what's that?" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, stepping back and looking Monsieur Vermoncey squarely in the eye. "What are you coming at with all your talk about money? It isn't money that we ask, but the honor that your son has taken away from us and must give back. In a word, monsieur, for I don't go to a place by thirty-six roads, I have come here to demand your consent to Monsieur Albert's marriage to my sister."

"My son marry your sister!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, with a slight upward movement of the shoulders. "Nonsense, my friend; surely, you can't think of such a thing; such a marriage is impossible! There are distinctions, conventions, in society, which we are bound to respect. In fact, my son cannot ally himself to a--messenger!"

"Then why could he dishonor my sister?" cried Sans-Cravate, in a loud voice and with an angry glance at his interlocutor.

"Hush, my friend, not so loud, for heaven's sake!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, astonished by the tone the messenger had a.s.sumed. But Sans-Cravate paid no heed; he was no longer the timid creature who trembled when he entered the presence of the man of the world and could not speak to him without stammering; now he was a brother demanding justice for his sister, and firmly resolved to obtain it.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am no boaster; I haven't come here to fling words in the air without any result; I have come to tell you what is going to happen. Either monsieur your son will marry my sister, you understand--either he'll marry her, or I'll kill him--unless he kills me. But as I believe there is such a thing as divine justice, and I am the injured party, I can afford to think that I shall kill him."

Monsieur Vermoncey dropped into a chair.

"Kill my son!" he cried; "my Albert! the only child left to me--the only tie that binds me to life! Do you mean to kill me too?"

"Then consent to his marriage to my sister, monsieur, and don't think you'll have any reason to blush for the connection. There's nothing dishonorable, monsieur, in being connected with honest folk who never injured anyone. The dishonorable thing is to carry trouble and despair into a family, to seduce a girl, and to abandon her when she may be carrying within her a token of her weakness; and if that should be so, monsieur, what would become of the child? He wouldn't have any father--he----"

Monsieur Vermoncey sprang to his feet, ran to Sans-Cravate, and grasped his hand, saying:

"You are right, my friend, and I must give way. Yes, I consent to my son's marrying your sister."