At this juncture the young man heard himself called violently by his master. He hastily put down his pruning-knife, and ran to the door of the hut, where he found Gutenberg, who, by the help of his stick, was trying to come to him. “Thy song,” said he, in a trembling voice, “thy last song, repeat it to me.” Claude looked at his master with surprise, and began to sing afresh-- _“Soir et matin, filles, n’allez follettes “Quierre és gazons derraines violettes.”_ Gutenberg hardly gave the singer time to pronounce these few words when he drew him violently towards him, and pressed him to his heart. “Young man,” said he, “from whom hast thou learnt that song?” “My mother taught it to me,” replied Claude, “in my childhood, while I played with small quoits on the Place de Grève.” Here the old man remained for a moment in deep thought; presently he said, “Seest thou, Claude, thou art an honest lad, and by thy fidelity thou hast merited my confidence. This song touched my heart, because it brought back to me the last word, the last sound of the voice of one whom I loved, dearly loved; since then how many years have passed away! I shall never hear that voice again, alas! never as in days gone by!” Gutenberg, overcome by his emotion, was silent, and it was as well, perhaps, that he did not see the agitation in which his words had thrown the young man. “Now, Claude,” said he, after a pause, “go, return to thy vine, but thou must sing that song to me once every evening, dost thou hear? Give me thy hand, child.” Claude held it out. “Thou tremblest; tell me, what ails thee?” asked Gutenberg, in a tone of mistrust, not uncommon to the blind. “Nothing, Master.” “But I will know the reason of thy agitation; thy hand burns.” “Well, because you tell me that you have confidence in me, and at the same time you hide from me the cause of your grief!” Claude had uttered these last words with anguish, almost in the tone of a suppliant who hastens to seize the favourable moment. Gutenberg turned away, and after a somewhat prolonged silence, he said, in a low voice, to the young Frenchman--“Claude, a countrywoman of thine once sang that song to me in bidding me adieu--a good girl, who had a noble heart--her name was the same as thy mother’s; thou sayest thy mother’s name is Gisquette.” The old man hid his face in his hands, while Claude, falling at Gutenberg’s feet, embraced his knees, murmuring, “My father, my father! Do you not guess? She who sang that song was my mother!” A cry escaped from Gutenberg; his stick fell from his hand; the sightless eyes seemed to seek the face of the young man at his knees. “It is false,” he said; “have pity on me--O tell me not an untruth!”