"Ah, ah, Madame Dutertre!" said M. Pascal, cheerfully. "I heard you distinctly; you were laughing like a lunatic." Then, turning to Dutertre, who was trying to hide his intense distress and to hold on to a last hope, he said: "How gay happiness makes these young women! Nothing like the sight of them puts joy in the heart, does it, my brave Dutertre?" "I was laughing in spite of myself, I assure you, my dear M. Pascal," replied Sophie. "In spite of yourself?" answered our hero. "Why, does some sorrow--" "Sorrow? Oh, no, thank God! But I was more disposed to tenderness than gaiety. This dear Antonine, if you only knew her, Charles," added the young woman, with sweet emotion, addressing her husband. "I cannot tell you how she has moved me, what a pure, touching confession she has made to me, for the heart of the poor child was too full, and she could not go away without telling me all." And a tear of sympathy moistened Sophie's beautiful eyes. At the name of Antonine, M. Pascal, notwithstanding his great control over himself, started. His thoughts concerning this young girl, for a moment postponed, returned more ardent, more persistent than ever, and as Sophie was wiping her eyes he threw upon her a penetrating glance, trying to divine what he might hope from her, in reference to the plan he meditated. Sophie soon spoke, addressing her husband: "But, Charles,--I will relate it all to you, after awhile,--while I was absorbed in thinking of my interview with Antonine, my little Madeleine came to me, and said in her baby language such ridiculous things that I could not keep from bursting into laughter. But, pardon me, M. Pascal, your heart will understand and excuse, I know, all a mother's weakness." "Do you say that to me," replied Pascal, cordially, "a bachelor,--you say it to me, a good old fellow?" "That is true," added Sophie, affectionately, "but we love you so much here, you see, that we think you are right to call yourself a good old fellow. Ask Charles if he will contradict my words." Dutertre replied with a constrained smile, and he had the strength and the courage to restrain his feelings before his wife to such a degree that she, occupied with M. Pascal, had not the least suspicion of her husband's anxiety. So, going to the table and taking up the purse she had embroidered, she presented it to M. Pascal, and said to him, in a voice full of emotion: "My dear M. Pascal, this purse is the fruit of my evening work,--evenings that I have spent here with my husband, with his excellent father, and with my children. If each one of these little steel beads could speak, all would tell you how many times your name has been pronounced among us, with all the affection and gratitude it deserves." "Ah, thank you, thank you, my dear Madame Dutertre," replied Pascal, "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this pretty present, this lovely remembrance,--only, you see, it embarrasses me a little." "How is that?"