Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-way between Saint Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence of purchasing provisions that could not be procured on the island. In the contemptuous glances of the men who met her, in their familiar nods, she read that her secret was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the cheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had no power to cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy was observed in the discussion of such subjects before the child. Things were called by their right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not laugh, however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied also the woman whose weakness was shown in her very way of knotting her hair, in the way she sat, and whose pleading eyes always seemed to be asking pardon for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, “Take care—you are watched.” But to Chariot he would have liked to say, “Go away, and let this woman alone!” He was also indignant in seeing his friend Bélisaire playing such a part in this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that passed between the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame Rondic’s apron while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his old ally, the child no longer lingered to speak when they met in the street. Bélisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. He suspected it so little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to the machine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to the apprentice. “It is for madame; give it to her secretly!” Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. “No,” he said at once; “I will not touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell your hats than to meddle with such matters.” Bélisaire looked at him with amazement. “You know very well,” said the boy, “what these letters are; and do you think that you are doing right to aid in deceiving that old man?” The pedler’s face turned scarlet. “I never deceived any one; if papers are given to me to carry, I carry them, that is all. Be sure of one thing, and that is, if I were the sort of person you call me, I should be much better off than I am today!” Jack tried to make him see the thing as he saw it, but evidently the man, however honest, was without any delicacy of perception. “And I, too,” thought Jack, suddenly, “am of the people now. What right have I to any such refinements?” That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was not astonishing. But Zênaïde, where was she? Of what was she thinking?