"You are the Champollion of mothers!" cried Charles Dutertre, while the old man said to the two children: "No, to-day is not Sunday, my children, but it is a feast-day." Here Sophie was obliged to interfere again, and translate. "They ask why it is a feast-day, father." "Because we are going to have a friend visit us, and when a friend comes to see us, it is always a feast," replied the old man, with a smile somewhat constrained. "Ah, we must not forget the purse," said Dutertre to his wife. "Wait a moment," replied Sophie, gaily, to her husband, as she pointed to a little rose-coloured box on the table, "do you think that I, any more than you, could forget our good M. Pascal, our worthy benefactor?" The grandfather, turning to little Madeleine, said, as he kissed her brow: "We are expecting M. Pascal,--you know M. Pascal." Madeleine again opened her great blue eyes; her face took on an expression almost of fear, and shaking her little curly head sadly, she said: "He is bad." "M. Pascal?" said Sophie. "Oh, yes, very bad!" replied the child. "But," said the young mother, "my dear Madeleine, why do you think that M. Pascal is bad?" "Come, Sophie," said Charles Dutertre, smiling, "you are not going to stop to listen to this childish talk about our worthy friend, are you?" Strange enough, the old man's countenance at once assumed a vague expression of disquietude, and whether he trusted the instinct and penetration of children, or whether he was influenced by another thought, far from making a jest of Madeleine's words, as his son did, he leaned over the child, and said: "Tell us, my child, why M. Pascal is bad." The little blonde shook her head, and said, innocently: "Don't know,--but, very sure, he is bad." Sophie, who felt a good deal like the grandfather on the subject of the wonderful sagacity of children, could not overcome a slight feeling of alarm, for there are secret, mysterious relations between a mother and the children of her blood. An indefinable presentiment, against which Sophie struggled with all her strength, because she thought it absurd and foolish, told her that the little girl had made no mistake in reading the character of M. Pascal, although she had heretofore esteemed him as the impersonation of goodness and generosity. Charles Dutertre, never suspecting the impressions of his wife and father, replied, smiling: "Now it is my turn to give a lesson to this grandfather and this mother, who pretend to understand the prattle and feeling of children so well. Our excellent friend has a rough exterior, heavy eyebrows, and a black beard and dark skin and unprepossessing speech; he is, in a word, a sort of benevolent churl, but he does not deserve the name of bad, even upon the authority of this little blonde." At this moment the servant entered, and said to her mistress: "Madame, Mlle. Hubert is here with her maid, and--"