"A week before the day for our wedding Josephine disappeared, leaving a letter for me saying that all was broken off. I subsequently learned that, yielding to the evil advice of one of her girl friends, a lost woman, she followed her example. Having lived in misery all her life, enduring grievous privations despite her long hours, twelve and fifteen of work a day, Josephine recoiled before the life that I offered her--a life of toil and poverty like her own."

"And like so many others," interjected Lebrenn, "she succ.u.mbed to the temptations of a less toilsome life. Oh! Poverty! Poverty!"

"I have never seen Josephine again, monsieur. She is now, I am told, a coryphee in one of the public dancing halls. She dropped her old name for one that I do not know, coined according to her habit of improvising upon all manner of subjects some of the wildest of songs. In short, she is lost forever. And yet, the girl had excellent qualities of heart. You now understand, monsieur, the cause of the sad emotion that came over me when you mentioned Josephine's name a minute ago."

"Your emotion testifies in favor of your heart, Monsieur George. You have been calumniated. I doubted the truth of what I was told; I am now certain. Let us say no more upon that subject. I now wish to tell you what happened at my house three days ago. I was, in the evening, in my wife's room, together with my daughter. The girl had sat silent and meditative for a while. Suddenly, taking my hand and her mother's, she said to us: 'I have a secret to confide to you. I have long put off speaking, because I have long been reflecting, lest I speak hastily. I love Monsieur George d.u.c.h.ene'--"

"Great G.o.d! monsieur," cried George, clasping his hands, and seized with inexpressible ecstasy. "Is it possible! Mademoiselle, your daughter!"

"That was the language of my daughter to us," proceeded Lebrenn with deliberation. "'I am pleased, my child, at your frankness,' I answered her; 'but how came this love about?' 'First, father, through learning of George's conduct towards his grandfather; then through hearing you often praise his character, his industrious habits, and his efforts to cultivate his mind. Finally, he won his way to my heart with his gentle and refined manners, with his frankness, and his conversation, as I heard him talk with you. I never said to him a word that could make him suspect my sentiments for him. On his part, he never dropped his extreme reserve towards me. I would be happy were he to share the sentiments I entertain for him, and if you, father and mother, think such a marriage proper. If you think otherwise I shall respect your wishes, knowing that you respect my freedom. If I can not marry Monsieur George I shall remain single. You have often told me, father, that I had a will of my own. You will not doubt my resolution. If this marriage be out of the question, you will not find me either sulky or dejected. Your affection will console me. Ever happy, as in the past, I shall ever care for you, for mother and for brother. I have told you the truth. Now, I wish you to decide. I shall wait.'"

George listened to Lebrenn with ever increasing astonishment. He could not believe his own ears. Finally he cried in broken accents:

"Monsieur, is this a dream?"

"Not in the least. My daughter never was more wide awake, I a.s.sure you.

I know the openness of her nature, also her firmness. Both my wife and I are certain of that--if this union can not be effected, Velleda's affection for us will not change, but neither will she marry anyone else. Now, then, seeing it is quite natural that a young and handsome girl of eighteen should marry, and seeing, furthermore, that Velleda's choice is worthy of herself and us, my wife and I, after mature reflection, might gladly decide to accept you as our son-in-law."

Impossible to describe the look of glad surprise, of intoxication, that was stamped upon George's features at these words of the merchant's. He remained mute, he seemed stupefied.

"Come, Monsieur George," the linendraper proceeded with a smile, "what is there so very extraordinary, so incredible, in what I have been telling you? For three whole months you were at work in my shop. I already knew that, in order to insure your grandfather's existence, you turned soldier. Your rank of under-officer, besides two wounds, proves that you served with honor. During your three months with me I was able--my eyes are sufficiently keen--to gauge your worth in point of heart, intelligence and skill at your trade. Delighted with our acquaintance, I invited you to call upon us. Your reserve in this instance is an additional proof of the delicacy of your character. On top of all that, my daughter loves you and you love her. You are twenty-seven years old, she eighteen. She is a charming being; you a handsome fellow. You are poor; I have enough for two. You are a mechanic, so was my father. What in the devil's name is there to amaze you so much? You look as if you had been treated to a fairy tale."

These kind words failed to put an end to George's stupor. He really believed himself treading on enchanted ground, as the merchant had indicated. With moist eyes and a throbbing heart the young man could barely mutter:

"Oh, monsieur! Excuse my embarra.s.sment--I feel so dazed with joy at all I have heard--at your saying that you consent to my marrying--"

"One moment!" quickly interposed the linendraper. "One moment! Take note that, with all the good opinion I entertain for you, what I said was we _might_ decide to accept you as our son-in-law. It was conditional. The conditions were these: first, that you were not guilty of the unworthy act of seduction, that you were charged with--"

"Monsieur, did I not swear to you?"

"You did. I believe you. I mention that first condition simply because I had it on my mind when I came in. As to the second--there is a second--"

"What is it, monsieur?" asked George with inexpressible anxiety, and beginning to apprehend he had too readily indulged in an insensate hope.

"Listen to me, Monsieur George. We have talked very little politics together. During the time that you worked at my place, our conversation always turned upon the history of our forefathers. Nevertheless, I know you entertain very liberal ideas. Let us be short about it--you are a Socialist republican."

"I have heard you say, monsieur, that all opinion, sincerely held, was honorable."

"And I do not take that back. I do not blame you. But between the desire to cause one's opinion to prevail by peaceful means, and schemes to bring about its triumph by violence, by the force of arms--between the two there yawns a deep abyss. Not true, Monsieur George?"

"Yes, monsieur," answered the young man, looking at the linendraper with surprise mingled with uneasiness.

"Now, then, never is an armed demonstration attempted single-handed. Is not that also true, Monsieur George?"

"Monsieur," the young man answered with a feeling of increasing uneasiness, "I do not know--"

"Yes, you are bound to know that people ordinarily a.s.sociate with others of their own opinion. In short, people affiliate in _secret societies_--and, on the day of battle, turn up boldly upon the street.

Is that not true, Monsieur George?"

"I know, monsieur, that the revolution of 1830 was accomplished in that manner," answered George in a high state of anxiety, while his heart felt more and more wrung with pain.

"Certainly," resumed Monsieur Lebrenn, "certainly it was done in that way, and others before it; and still others in the future will take the same course. Nevertheless, as with revolutions, insurrections do not always succeed. Seeing that people who play at that game stake their heads, you will realize, Monsieur George, that my wife and I would be rather disinclined to give our daughter to a man who did not belong to himself; who, at any moment, might take up arms, and march with the secret society that he is a member of at the risk of his life, as behooves a man of honor and conviction. It is all very lofty, very heroic, I admit. The inconvenience lies in that the Chamber of Peers, failing to appreciate that sort of heroism, may send the conspirators to Mt. St. Michel, unless it order their heads cut off. Now, then, I put the question to you as a matter of conscience, Monsieur George, would it not be a sad thing for a young woman to be exposed at any time to see her husband without a head, or consigned to imprisonment for life?"

George, grief-stricken and in consternation, had turned pale. He answered Lebrenn in a depressed voice:

"Monsieur--two words--"

"Allow me, I shall be done in a second," interposed the linendraper; and he proceeded in a grave, almost solemn voice:

"Monsieur George, I place implicit confidence in your word. I have tested you. Swear to me that you do not belong to any secret society. I will believe you, and you shall be my son-in-law--or, rather, my own son," added Lebrenn, reaching out his hand to George, "seeing that since I became acquainted with you and learned to esteem you, I ever felt for you, I repeat it, as much interest as sympathy."

The merchant's praises, together with the cordiality of his manner, intensified the severity of the blow that smote the hopes of George. He, hitherto so determined and energetic, felt himself weakening. He covered his face in his hands, and could not restrain his tears.

Lebrenn contemplated him with commiseration. In a moved voice he addressed the young man:

"I am awaiting your oath, Monsieur George."

The young man turned his head aside to wipe away his tears. He then faced the father of his beloved and said:

"I can not, monsieur, give you the oath that you request."

"Then--your marriage to my daughter--"

"I must renounce it, monsieur," answered George painfully.

"Accordingly, Monsieur George," resumed the merchant, "you admit that you belong to a secret society?"

The young man's silence was his only reply.

"Well," said the merchant, heaving a sigh of regret, and rising; "it is all ended--fortunately my daughter is a brave girl."

"I also shall be so, monsieur."

"Monsieur George," continued the merchant, reaching out his hand to the young carpenter, "you are a man of honor. I need not demand of you secrecy concerning this interview. As you may judge, my inclinations were most favorable towards you. It is not my fault if my plans--I shall say more--my wishes, my warm wishes, to see my daughter and you united meet with an insuperable obstacle."

"Never, monsieur, shall I forget the token of esteem with which you have honored me. You act with the wisdom and discretion of a father. I can not--let it cost me what grief it may--but bow respectfully to your decision. I should, I admit it, myself have forestalled this subject with you--I should have loyally apprized you of the sacred engagement that binds me to my party. I am certain I would have made the confession to you, so soon as I had recovered from the intoxication of happiness that your words threw me into. I would have had time to consider the duties imposed upon me by that unexpected happiness--this marriage.

Pardon me, monsieur," George proceeded, in a voice that trembled with anguish, "pardon me. I have no longer the right to speak of that beautiful dream. But what I shall ever remember with pride is your having said to me: 'You can be my son.'"

"It is well, Monsieur George; I expected no less from you," said Lebrenn, moving towards the door.

And, giving his hand once more to the young man, he added with emotion:

"Once more, adieu."

"Adieu, monsieur," responded George, taking the outstretched hand of the merchant. But the latter, suddenly throwing his arms around the young artisan, pressed him to his breast, crying in a voice that shook with joy, and with eyes moist with tears:

"Well done, George! Honest man! Loyal heart! I judged you rightly!"

Puzzled at these words, and at the conduct of the linendraper, George looked at him unable to utter a word. The latter whispered to him: