"Yes, both of us." "Then you are tolerably certain of having your request granted. But what does the person desire?" "Oh, he doesn't dare to ask or even desire anything. He is so timid. That is the reason Suzanne and I both resolved to ask for him. His position is so interesting and so trying!" "My poor, tender-hearted child, how deeply in earnest you are, and how you are blushing! I am sure the person you have in mind must be both very deserving and very unfortunate." "Yes, father, and when one sees a person every day, and thus learns to know and appreciate him, one's interest naturally increases." "But of whom are you speaking, my child?" "Of M. Onésime." "And who is M. Onésime? Onésime, Onésime,--I have heard the name before, it seems to me." "M. Onésime is Suzanne's nephew." "Ah, yes, I recollect now. She has often spoken of him. He is the son of the sister she lost a couple of years ago." "Yes, my dear father, he is an orphan. He had a government clerkship at Lille, but he was obliged to give that up, and as he could not secure any other situation there, Suzanne sent for him to come here and stay until he could find something to do." "What, he is here?" "Yes, father." "He is living here in this house?" "He has been living here for the last two months." "Why are you blushing again?" "But I am not blushing, father, I assure you." "Surely, my dear child, you cannot suppose that I would be displeased because our friend Suzanne, to whom we owe so much, has entertained her nephew here, especially as he must be a well-behaved boy, or Suzanne would not have kept him with her." "You must see him, father, and then you can judge for yourself." "But how did he happen to lose his place?" "He was a copyist, but his sight is so bad that it interfered with his work, and they dismissed him. You can imagine, my dear father, how painful his present position is to him, for he has a good education, and cannot bear to be idle. His defective vision will make it very difficult for him to secure any position, I fear; so, father, I have been counting, that is to say, Suzanne and I have been counting on you to assist and advise M. Onésime. I am sure when you see him and know him, you will do anything in the world for him, he is so kind and good, and you will pity him and love him so much." It is impossible to describe the naïve and touching manner in which Sabine uttered these last words, her changing colour and gently heaving breast betraying the lively interest she felt in her protégé. Cloarek stood silent and thoughtful for a moment. He was beginning to understand the change he had noticed in his daughter's manner and expression. At last the young girl, surprised and somewhat alarmed by Yvon's silence, asked: "Why do you not answer me, my dear father?" "Tell me, my child, since Suzanne's nephew has been living here, what has he done? What kind of a life has he led?"