"But it was written, my son Asticot. It was preordained. She is the one woman in the world to whom I need not pretend to be other than I am. She is _real, nom de Dieu_! What she says is Blanquette, what she does is Blanquette, and her sayings and doings would grace the greatest Queen in Christendom. But, have you thought of it? I have come indeed to the end of my journey. I started out to find Truth, the Reality of Things. I have found it. I have found it, my son. It is a woman, strong and steadfast, who looks into your eyes; who can help a man to accomplish his destiny. And the destiny of man is to work, and to beget strong children. And his reward is to have the light in the wife's eyes and the welcome of a child's voice as he crosses the threshold of his house. And it cleanses a man. But Blanquette----" he smote his forehead, and burst into excited laughter. "Why did it not enter into this idiot head before?" The laughter ceased all of a sudden, and at least three years returned to his face. "It takes two parties to make a marriage," said he in a chastened tone. "Blanquette is young. I am not. She may be thinking of a future quite different. It is all very well to say I will marry Blanquette, but will Blanquette marry me?" "Master," said I, feeling a person of elderly experience, "it was entirely on your account that Blanquette refused the _quincaillier_ at the corner of the street." I had learned from her the day before that the superior hardware merchant had recently made her a ceremonious offer of marriage. "A sense of duty, perhaps," said Paragot. I laughed at his seriousness. "But, Master, she has been eating her heart out for you since the wedding at Chambéry." "Asticot," said he, planting himself in front of me, "are you jesting or speaking what you know to be the truth?" "The absolute truth." "And you never told me? You knew that a real woman loved me, and you let me chase a will-o'-the-wisp with gloves and an umbrella? Truly a man's foes are of his own household." "But, Master----" I began. He laughed at the sight of my dejected face. "No, you were loyal, my son. The man who gives away a woman's confidence, even when she avows the poisoning of her husband and the strangulation of her babes, is a transpontine villain." He took up his porcelain pipe and filled it from the blue packet of caporal that lay on the table with the oilskin cover. He struck a match and was about to apply it to the bowl, when one of his sudden ideas caused him to blow out the match and lay down the pipe. Then with his old lightning swiftness he strode to the door and flung it open. "Blanquette! Blanquette!" he cried. "_Oui, maître_," came from the kitchen, and in a moment Blanquette entered the room. He took her by the hand and led her to the centre, while she regarded him somewhat mystified. With his heels together, he made her a correct bow.