"It would be cruel in me to do that, father, for he tries to be the first to laugh at his mishaps, though they worry him terribly. It is so sad to be almost blind. And this very evening—you can judge from that how courageous he is—he scalded his hand nearly to the bone with boiling water. You will see, father, what a dreadful burn it was. Well, for all that, M. Onésime had self-control and courage enough not only to make no ado about it, but also to go on with his reading as if nothing had happened, so it was only by the merest chance that we discovered the accident nearly an hour afterward."
"Really, M. Onésime seems to be quite a hero."
"A hero; no, father, for, as we were saying this evening, only persons who kill and spill blood are called heroes, while M. Onésime—"
"Spills boiling water."
"Why, father!"
"Why do you look at me so reproachfully?"
"It seems strange that you, too, who are always so just—"
"Why, what great injustice have I been guilty of, my child?"
"You are making light of a very serious matter, father, for even Suzanne turned pale with fright when she saw his burn, though she is always ridiculing him in the most merciless manner. And why? Because he has such a horror of everything that is cruel and bloodthirsty. Only this evening we had quite a discussion with Suzanne, and M. Onésime was on my side, and he is on my side only when I am right, so I feel sure in advance that you will agree with us."
"What was the subject of this discussion, my child?"