“It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had just fallen about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best I can.” A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he crossed over to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, seeking to recover his self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the painful silence which had fallen they heard Pascal coming upstairs noisily, to announce his return. “I entreat you,” murmured Clotilde hurriedly, “to say nothing to master. He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him myself, for he was bent upon this marriage.” Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, as if he had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile at them, saying: “Well, children, have you come to an understanding?” “Yes, undoubtedly,” responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. “Then it is all settled?” “Quite,” said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by the furniture, and dropped into the chair beside it. “Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this old carcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, my children, your happiness will make me well again.” But when Ramond, after a few minutes’ further conversation, had gone away, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, and he again asked her: “It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?” “Entirely settled.” After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeat that he was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last they were all going to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning to drop asleep, as he sometimes did in the afternoon. But his heart beat violently, and his closely shut eyelids held back the tears. That evening, at about ten o’clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for a moment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, Pascal profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and lay the little box containing the lace corsage on the young girl’s bed. She came upstairs again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he had been for at least twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in his shirt sleeves, when a burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A little hand tapped, and a fresh voice cried, laughing: “Come, come and look!” He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered by his joy. “Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my bed!”