"M. Onésime was reading, in that newspaper you see over there on the table, an account of the escape of a famous privateer named Captain l'Endurci. You have read it too, perhaps, father."
"No," replied Cloarek, repressing an involuntary movement of surprise and alarm; "no, my child. Well, what do you and M. Onésime think of the corsair?"
"His cruelty shocked us, dear father; for would you believe it? to regain his liberty he killed two men and severely wounded a third. Suzanne approved his conduct, claiming that he had behaved in a very brave and heroic manner, but M. Onésime said, and this proves the generosity of his heart—"
"Well, what did M. Onésime say?"
"That he would rather remain a prisoner all his life than owe his freedom to the death of another person. Don't you think that M. Onésime and I are right?"
"I hardly know what to say, my child. A humdrum merchant like myself is not a very good judge of such matters. Still, it seems to me that you and M. Onésime are rather hard on the poor privateer."
"But, father, read the frightful story, and you will see—"
"But listen, this privateer had a family, perhaps, that he tenderly loved, and that he was hoping soon to see again, and in his despair at finding himself a prisoner—"
"A family! Men who live in the midst of carnage have families that they love tenderly? Is that possible, father?"
"Why, do not even wolves love their young?"