‘You had better come, too,’ she said to Percenez and Gabrielle; ‘that father and son there have not done yet. They have their blessed Swiss saints to invoke in their barbarous jargon. But, as I do not approve either of their tongue or of their Klauses and Meinrads, Madeleine and I always leave them to themselves.’ The colporteur and his little ward rose, but not without hesitation, for the corporal and his son remained kneeling as stiff as any of the wooden figures surrounding them, with hands joined and eyes directed immediately in front of them. ‘Oh my faith!’ exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, as she reached the sitting-room; ‘to think that I have been reduced to this,--to become the spouse of a clockwork-man made of wood. Heavens! Étienne, the corporal does everything to the minute; dresses, washes, eats, prays, dreams of his precious Schweizerland, all by the watch, and I--poor I--I am in despair. This does not suit me at all.’ Percenez attempted to console his sister, and she rattled on with her story of grievance, whilst Gabrielle, musing and not speaking, heard the solemn voice of the old soldier sounding from the workshop: ‘Heiliger Meinrad!’ And Nicholas’s response: ‘Bitte für uns[2].’ ‘Heiliger Gallus!’ ‘Bitte für uns.’ ‘Heiliger Beatus!’ ‘Bitte für uns.’ ‘Heiliger Moritz und deine Gefährte!’ ‘Bittet für uns.’ ‘Heiliger Bonifacius!’ ‘Bitte für uns.’ ‘Heilige Verena!’ ‘Bitte für uns.’ ‘Heiliger Bruder Klaus!’ ‘Bitte für uns.’ Shortly after, the corporal and his son returned to the room. Gabrielle was sitting by herself in the dusk near the door--in fact, in that corner of the sofa into which Madame Deschwanden had driven Nicholas, when she wanted the paper with roses and jessamine and Brazilian humming-birds. The young man walked towards her somewhat awkwardly, and leaning on the arm of the sofa with his back to the window, said: ‘You must be puzzled at our relationship in this house.’ ‘I do not quite understand the relationship, I own,’ answered Gabrielle, shyly. ‘I am not the son of madame,’ said he, nodding his head in the direction of Percenez’s sister, ‘nor is Madeleine my own sister. My father married again, after my mother’s death, and Madame Chabry was a widow with an only daughter. Do you understand now?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’ ‘I should like to hear your opinion about the box,’ he continued. ‘Do you think we have any right to keep it? Mamma is set upon it, so is Madeleine, but the question is, have they any right to it?’ Gabrielle looked at her shawl, and plucked at the fringe. ‘You do not like to answer,’ said Klaus. ‘I think the box ought to be returned,’ she said, timidly, and in a low, faltering voice. A smile beamed on the lad’s broad face. He nodded at her in a friendly, approving manner, and said, ‘So my father says. I consulted him in the other room. And now the difficulty is to get the box away. Observe my father.’