"'And so,' he went on, 'as I don't want to meet anybody I know when I go to see my young friend, I've hired another apartment, on Rue Grange-aux-Belles, near the canal.'--In short, monsieur, he employed me to move the furniture from Rue de Grenelle to the new lodgings in a great hurry, and to wait till he brought his lady there. I agreed, of course, and did what he told me to do. I finished the job before two o'clock, and I had gone out to rest a bit, for I was tired out, when the concierge came and told me they had arrived and the young man had gone right away again. I went to see the lady, to find out whether she was satisfied with the way I'd fixed her furniture. You can judge of my feelings when I recognized my sister Liline in the girl Monsieur Albert had abducted. She cried when she saw me, and kissed me, and begged me to forgive her; then she told me how it had all happened, just as I have told you; and she begged me not to get angry, because she is perfectly sure her lover will marry her as he has promised." "My son has done that! abducted a virtuous girl! and seduced her! Oh! that is very bad--it is----" Monsieur Vermoncey did not finish his sentence, but hid his face in his hands. "I am only a poor, uneducated messenger, monsieur. But I have my honor, and I care all the more for it, d'ye see, because it's all I've got. At first I cried with my sister, and broke her heart by telling her that her seducer was probably a fickle fellow who only intended to deceive her as he has a thousand other women; but she seems so convinced of his love; and then, she's so sweet and pretty, poor Liline! After all, why shouldn't Monsieur Albert love her sincerely? That thought brought back my courage, and I comforted her and made up my mind right off to come and tell you the whole story, because you're the young man's father, and it can't be fixed without your consent. I thought, monsieur, that you would listen to the voice of poor people who may be ruined by your son--but who can be made very happy by you, if you choose." Sans-Cravate ceased to speak; he was satisfied with his performance. In truth, his sister's plight had made him almost eloquent; for we never lack moving words, words that go to the heart, when we follow the heart's promptings. Monsieur Vermoncey said nothing, but seemed absorbed in thought. The messenger anxiously awaited the words that were to come forth from his mouth, and to decide his sister's fate; but he dared not urge him to speak, and his eyes alone bore witness to his impatience. At last, Monsieur Vermoncey rose, went to Sans-Cravate, put his hand on his shoulder, and said: "Come, my friend, let us try to forgive a young man's wrong-doing, all the consequences of which he failed to realize. I am rich; I will take it upon myself to look after your sister's future, and that of your whole family; your father, in his old age, shall have everything to make life pleasant, and----"