When people have passed fifty, and known each other since they went to the same school in childhood, and during the long succeeding years have resided pretty much in the same place, they are very apt, when talking together, to speak openly from their hearts, especially if those hearts are filled to the brim and running over with justifiable paternal pride and motherly tenderness. And it was true that the dear Alfred, the only and cherished son of M. Maubars, was handsome, honest, active, and gifted, and, thanks to the fortune which he would inherit, would one day take his place among the most respectable citizens of the province. As to Madame de Guers, this fair and worthy old lady, with white hair, in whom all the select souls of the little town saluted and recognized a sister, all the poor a benefactress, and all the afflicted a friend, she had never been a mother. She had married late, less from inclination than duty, to obey a vow of her parents and fulfil a family project; she had cared for, with an admirable devotion, and supported with a no less admirable equality of temper, the precocious infirmities and frequent brusqueries of M. de Guers, who, as former captain of a vessel, had lived a silent, sombre, deserted life in an old cold-looking little house on the coast. But one happy day the sun seemed to shine brighter for her, and the radiant sentiment of an unknown happiness mingled with her tears and her regrets, as one of the friends of her childhood, a poor widow, in dying, confided to her the education and guardianship of her deserted infant. What a complete happiness, what a recompense for all the sunless days, the gloomy and heavy hours, so faithfully supported! M. de Guers, though very ill at the time, consented to receive the child, on condition, as he added peremptorily, “that she should be kept very neat and make no noise”--this his precise and solemn declaration. The 215 little Valentine seemed to understand what was expected of her, and, though stirring, vigorous, and lively, rarely a rent was seen in her little Indian silk, never a spot on her red lips nor her cherubic forehead. When she happened to fall, she smothered her sobs and cries; when she remembered the past, she wept low for her mother--and all this not to displease the old gentleman, shut up in his close parlor, where he contemplated with astonishment mingled with pity and respect his two unfortunate legs--done up in flannel. Time, childhood, and natural gaiety combining, the little girl began even to find herself perfectly happy in this old house, where she was cherished, and nothing left undone for her needs, her games, or her repose.