“But you are mistaken, my child; Jack was proud and happy to marry you with a thorough knowledge of your history. I told it all to him, and if you had had more confidence in me, you would have avoided this trial to us all.”
“And he was willing to marry me!”
“Child! he loves you. Besides, your destinies are similar. He has no father, and his mother has never been married. The only difference between you is that your mother was a saint, and his is a sinner.”
Then the doctor, who had told Jack Cécile’s history, now related to her the long martyrdom of the youth she loved. He told her of his exile from his mother’s arms—of all that he had endured. “I understand it all now,” he cried; “it is she who has told Hirsch of your mother’s marriage.”
While the doctor was talking, Cécile was overwhelmed with despair to think that she had caused Jack, already so unhappy, so much needless sorrow. “O, how he has suffered!” she sobbed. “Have you heard anything from him?”
“No; but he can come and tell you himself all that you wish to know,” answered her grandfather, with a smile.
“But he may not wish to come.”
“Well, then, we will go to him. It is Sunday; let us find him and bring him home with us.”
An hour or two later, M. Rivals and his granddaughter were on their way to Paris. Just after they left, a man stopped before the house. He looked at the little door. “This is the place,” he said, and he rang. The servant opened the door, but seeing before her one of those dangerous pedlers that wander through the country, she attempted to close it again.
“What do you want?”