Elizabeth, or Bessy, as they afterwards named her, clung to her new friend, and a sad smile hovered on her wan little face. The child accepted her virgin mother. Corinne was mistaken as regards Laviguerie. He was not astonished at any thing Germaine ever did. At first, he thought it a little unfortunate that her fancy had happened to fall on the child of a murderess! But the philosopher felt himself bound to rise above common prejudices, and soon became interested in the child himself. "You expect to bring up the child?" he asked Germaine. "You have no objection, dear father?" "I? Not in the least. But suppose you wish to marry some of these days?" "Dear father, you know that I shall never marry." Laviguerie shrugged his shoulders thinking that Odette used to say the same, yet she was married. He went back to his library, saying to himself that philosophy is much easier to understand than the workings of any woman's heart, and that women, generally, were incomprehensible creatures. A few weeks later he came, one day, to his daughter's room, saying, "Will I disturb you if I come in for a little while?" "You can never disturb me, dear father." "I want to talk to you seriously, dear, dear child." Germaine was astonished at these expressions of affection. M. Laviguerie himself was not at his ease. He had been obliged to acknowledge that in all his theories about Germaine, that he had confided to M. Descoutures, in one and all had he been proved mistaken. He continued: "I must confess to you, dear Germaine, that I did not love you when you returned from Naples. I had formed mistaken ideas about you. You must forgive me. My preference for your sister came from my knowing her better; now that I know you as well, I wish to tell you, dear child, that you share my heart equally with Odette." Germaine embraced her father. He continued, "I think you are one of the best women on earth. I fully appreciate your kind, good heart, and wonderful unselfishness. I have not done my duty to you, for I ought to have been looking out for a husband for my dear daughter." "Oh! I implore you, do not speak of that." "But why not? You are not in earnest when you say you do not wish to marry!" "Indeed, indeed I am!" "I am very sorry, my daughter. The true happiness in this life, for a woman, is to be a wife and a mother. In spite of your religious ideas, you are too sensible to wish to be a nun; but the life you lead now is nothing more than that. It would gratify me beyond measure to see you well married, so that when Death comes for me I may know I leave you in loving care." Germaine was frightened at his insistance. What could it mean? "What possible objection can you have to it?" continued the father; "I can see none whatever. You are young, you are attractive, you are rich. Little Bessie, of course, would be no hindrance; you could look after her just as well if you were married----"