"Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent, and surpa.s.ses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high degree."

"Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri."

"You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done; then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence enough for that."

Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:--

"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."

"Why? Why?"

Mathilde replied with timidity:--

"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"

"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do you want?"

Mathilde, sighing, replied:--

"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."

"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you accept my proposition? Yes or no?"

"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I will reply afterward."

Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said, "Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of weakness, and her heart beat violently.

"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."

Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an agitated voice:--

"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please."

Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.

Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--

"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him, and excuse his retirement."

He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.

When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear:--

"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you needless annoyance."

Soon after Samuel appeared at the _salon_ of the Wtorkowskas. The siren was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening, forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement, he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.

"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an important matter that concerns you."

"Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room."

When they were alone, Samuel asked:--

"No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire frankness."

"Do as you would in your own house," replied she.

"To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear madame."

"Softly, softly!"

"Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am sure that these are your opinions."

"We have several persons in view, monsieur."

"Who are they?"

"Count Bavorof."

"Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not think you would be willing to give Muse to the count."

"What nonsense you are talking."

"Who next?"

"Colonel Sofronof is madly in love."

"In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts.

He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pa.s.s.

Next?"

"The counsellor of state, Pikulinski."

"What! that old fool?"

"For a husband it does not matter."

"That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but his little property is pledged to the Credit Foncier. Your counsellor is a n.o.body. His emoluments are too slender. Another?"

Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty officials who possessed only their t.i.tles and their brilliant uniforms.

Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law.

"Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?"

"And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my daughter and myself?"

"Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled."

"What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel."