We were all gathered in mother’s room because of little Nicola, who was somewhat grippy, and who, being a delicate child, needed watchful care. Notwithstanding my absorbing secret I felt that some important event was impending. The too turbulent Jamie was admonished to keep quiet in a corner. Mélanie, always somewhat in the moon--Aunt Deen insisted that she was listening to her voices, like Jeanne d’Arc--quietly undertook to amuse her sick sister, so that father was finally able to show mother the letter which he had in his hand. “It is from Monsignor’s secretary,” he said as he opened it. I thought he was speaking of the bishop, who always dined with us once a year. But the name of the Count de Chambord occurred in it. When he had finished reading it--I had not heard it distinctly--father added simply: “Very well; I will present myself, since the prince desires that nothing be neglected for the welfare of the country.” “Oh, the prince!” murmured grandfather, smothering his little laugh. Father looked at him with that straightforward, penetrating gaze which was always hard to bear. But grandfather at once put on his most innocent air, such as I remembered him to have assumed the time we met mamma in the street — when he said, “We are going to buy a paper.” I at once divined that father was the mysterious and terrible leader whose intervention in the assault upon the mayor’s office Martinod had so feared. It could be no one but he, and how was it possible that he should not win the battle? A look at him was enough. He bore victory about with him. My childish eyes, still loyal and clear-sighted, could see the signs of superiority radiating from his brow. How should I have guessed that superiority is a small factor in success, since all sorts of dubious weapons against it are being forged in dark places? I might indeed endeavour to escape from my father’s influence, but at least I never dreamed of underrating it. The watchful care usually extended to me was diminished by the illness of Nicola, who was always asking for her mother. I had remarked that father was making the most of his infrequent moments of leisure to talk with Mélanie, go out with Mélanie, take walks with Mélanie. More than ever he treated her with an affection at once tender and reserved, almost respectful, and seemed to extend his strength over her, as if some one was endangering his daughter or seeking to take her from him. As for Aunt Deen, who almost worshipped her nephews and nieces, individually and collectively, she remarked between going up and down stairs that I was a model child and an exemplary son, and even placed to her brother’s credit a large part in this happy state of things.