I thought I was alone, but all at once I caught sight of Martine in the corner; I had not noticed when she came in, for she had said nothing, contrary to her habit, but just sat down and took up her sewing without even looking in my direction. I felt on such good terms with all the world that I wanted to share my pleasure, so just for the sake of being amiable, I said, “Why did they ring the great bell this morning?” “It is St. Martin’s Day, Father,” said she, surprised at the question. To think that I should have so lost myself in dreams as to forget the god of our town and herself! Among all the new friends in Plutarch, I could see in my mind’s eye this old one, as good as any of the rest of them, dividing his long cloak with his sword, as his legend tells us. “How could I forget St. Martin?” cried I. “I don’t know indeed,” said Martine, “except that these days you don’t seem to remember anything in earth or Heaven but that stupid book of yours.” This made me laugh, for I had often noticed that she cast a malevolent eye on old Plutarch when she came in the morning and found him in my bed; women seldom have a real love for books; they see in them either lovers or rivals. When they themselves read they always have an uneasy sense of infidelity, and that is why they cannot bear to see us absorbed in books, which they feel to be a sort of treachery. “It is St. Martin’s own fault,” said I, “he never comes to see me nowadays, though he has half his cloak to wear, and so I forgot all about him. Out of sight out of mind! You must keep yourself before people’s eyes, you know, my daughter, if you want to be remembered.” “There is no need to tell me that; I don’t let folks forget me.” “True enough, you are easy to see and hear as a general thing, but this morning you were as still as a mouse; I miss our usual quarrel, come over here and begin.” She would not even turn her head, but answered, “I have given up, there is no use talking to you!” I looked at her as she sat stitching away with her mouth obstinately set; she really looked sad, so I began to be sorry that I had got the better of her. “Come here, dear, and give me a kiss; I may forget Martin, but never his namesake. Come, I have a present here for you.” “You have some trick up your sleeve.” “No, no, on my word, come and see what I have for you.” “I am too busy.” “Unnatural child, you are too busy to kiss your old father?” She came reluctantly and stood near the bed, and I held out my arms to her. “I don’t see any present,” said she. “You have it now, I meant myself.” “A pretty present you would be!” “Ugly or pretty, I am yours entirely now to do with as you please.” “Will you sleep downstairs?” “Anywhere you choose to put me.” “Will you do as you are told and let me love you and scold you when you need it?” “I am your slave from this hour!” “You dear bad old thing!” she cried. “I am going to get even with you now, for all your obstinacy!”