"Monsieur George, I place implicit confidence in your word. I have tested you. Swear to me that you do not belong to any secret society. I will believe you, and you shall be my son-in-law--or, rather, my own son," added Lebrenn, reaching out his hand to George, "seeing that since I became acquainted with you and learned to esteem you, I ever felt for you, I repeat it, as much interest as sympathy." The merchant's praises, together with the cordiality of his manner, intensified the severity of the blow that smote the hopes of George. He, hitherto so determined and energetic, felt himself weakening. He covered his face in his hands, and could not restrain his tears. Lebrenn contemplated him with commiseration. In a moved voice he addressed the young man: "I am awaiting your oath, Monsieur George." The young man turned his head aside to wipe away his tears. He then faced the father of his beloved and said: "I can not, monsieur, give you the oath that you request." "Then--your marriage to my daughter--" "I must renounce it, monsieur," answered George painfully. "Accordingly, Monsieur George," resumed the merchant, "you admit that you belong to a secret society?" The young man's silence was his only reply. "Well," said the merchant, heaving a sigh of regret, and rising; "it is all ended--fortunately my daughter is a brave girl." "I also shall be so, monsieur." "Monsieur George," continued the merchant, reaching out his hand to the young carpenter, "you are a man of honor. I need not demand of you secrecy concerning this interview. As you may judge, my inclinations were most favorable towards you. It is not my fault if my plans--I shall say more--my wishes, my warm wishes, to see my daughter and you united meet with an insuperable obstacle." "Never, monsieur, shall I forget the token of esteem with which you have honored me. You act with the wisdom and discretion of a father. I can not--let it cost me what grief it may--but bow respectfully to your decision. I should, I admit it, myself have forestalled this subject with you--I should have loyally apprized you of the sacred engagement that binds me to my party. I am certain I would have made the confession to you, so soon as I had recovered from the intoxication of happiness that your words threw me into. I would have had time to consider the duties imposed upon me by that unexpected happiness--this marriage. Pardon me, monsieur," George proceeded, in a voice that trembled with anguish, "pardon me. I have no longer the right to speak of that beautiful dream. But what I shall ever remember with pride is your having said to me: 'You can be my son.'" "It is well, Monsieur George; I expected no less from you," said Lebrenn, moving towards the door. And, giving his hand once more to the young man, he added with emotion: "Once more, adieu."