“Well, then, we have another establishment—the _Maison Paternelle_. I have some of the circulars here in my pocket, and perhaps you would glance over them, sir.” D’Argenton took the papers and turned back toward the house. The carriage was coming down the avenue, and soon Charlotte, her color heightened and her eyes bright with hope for her child, appeared. “I have succeeded,” she cried, as the poet entered the carriage. “Ah!” he answered, dryly, relapsing into silence, turning over his circulars with an air of affected interest. Charlotte, too, was silent, supposing his pride wounded; and finally he was obliged to say, “You succeeded, then?” “Completely. It has always been his intention to give Jack, on his coming of age, a present of ten thousand francs. He has given it to me now. Six thousand will repay the money, and the other four thousand I am to employ as I think best for my child’s advantage.” “Employ it, then, in placing him in the _Maison Paternelle_, at Mertray, for two or three years. It is there only that one can learn to make an honest man from out of a thief.” She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that in that poor little brain impressions are very transitory. “I am ready to do whatever you choose,” she said, “you have been so good and generous!” The poet was enchanted; he was still master, and he proceeded to read Charlotte a long lecture. Her maternal weakness was the cause of all that had happened. The master-hand of a man was absolutely essential. She did not answer, being occupied with joy at the thought of her child not being sent to prison.