"You would do . . . better," she said.
"Faith, I am flattered!" cried La Vireville gaily, though, to tell the truth, he felt a little cold. "Will you instruct me how to play the part?"
"It is simple. Fired with this quasi-paternal anxiety, you go to France after the child and attempt to recover him."
The Chevalier de la Vireville laughed. "A fine 'attempt'! Do you think, Madame, that I am fool enough to venture my head for no better a chance than that? After all, I am not his father."
"No," said Mme. de Chaulnes cooly, "naturally you could never recover him that way. But, of course, there is another method."
"You mean . . . exchange?"
"Precisely."
There was a pregnant silence. The goldfish suddenly ceased swimming, and gaped at the Frenchman through its prison walls.
"But you are not his father, one sees," resumed the old lady, and took up her embroidery again. "So why consider it? He will forget England and his surroundings—in time. I do not suppose he will be unkindly used; someone will probably adopt him and bring him up to a useful trade."
"Some foster-father like Simon, no doubt," commented the émigré bitterly. In his mind was the little prisoner of the Temple, so soon, had La Vireville known it, to be free of his captivity for ever. The thought of that martyred innocence pierced him as nothing else could have done, and he went straight to the point. "How could I possible have any guarantee that, if I gave myself up, the bargain would be respected, and the boy sent back unharmed?"