“Rise to my arms—let me clasp you to my heart, my child, for you exaggerate these actions, in themselves so simple and so natural. And then, believe me, that which you term my piety has not been a useless lesson to me. I have seen how little space a man occupies beneath the ground, and how soon he is lost amid the world, should God turn his face from him. Your father was young, full of courage, with a brilliant career opening before him. Your father was the last descendant of an ancient line; he bore a noble name. His path seemed marked with honors and distinction; he had a family and powerful friends. Well, he suddenly disappeared, as if the earth had opened beneath his feet. I know not if some tearful eyes sought for him till they lost all trace of him; but this I know, that for one-and-twenty years no one has sought out his tomb—no one knows that he lies beneath that spot, where the grass is greener and grows more luxuriantly than elsewhere—and yet, vain, glorious, and miserable as he is, man considers himself of some value.”
“Oh! and my mother, has she not visited his grave?”
The old man did not answer.
“Well, then! there will be two of us who henceforward will know the spot, where he reposes. Come, and show it to me; for I will return to it, I promise solemnly, every time my ship returns to the coast of France.”
Saying this, he drew Achard into the outer room, but as they opened the door they heard a slight noise in the park. It was a servant from the castle, who had accompanied Marguerite. Paul hurriedly returned into the bedroom.
“It is my sister,” said he to Achard; “leave me alone with her a moment. It is necessary that I should speak to her. I have something to communicate which will make her pass a happy night. We must have compassion for those who watch and weep.”
“Reflect,” said Achard, “that the secret I have revealed to you is your mother’s.”
“Fear not—I will speak to her but of that which concerns herself.”
At that moment Marguerite entered the room.