“You, gentlemen, are my friends, and so I will explain to you what I would not explain to others. You wonder at what I have just said and done. I try to do my duty—that is my religion, and my only religion. I have tried to do it to-night. With your help I have done what I could to save my friend’s property, because she was away and helpless. She has now left to her some of the things she loved. So it is with this girl. Ten years ago I found her, a child of eight, crying in the street. For months she had gotten up at daylight, had washed and dressed her two baby brothers, cooked their breakfast, cleaned house, and tucked in her bedridden mother; but, try as she would, she was late for school—not once, but several times. This was against the rules, and when the prizes and diplomas were given out, all she got was a scolding. Later on she was dismissed. Because she had no other place to go, and because I had no child of my own, I took her home with me. As I assumed all responsibility for her, and she has no one but me, I shall carry it out to the end, exactly as if she were my daughter. My own daughter should not and would not marry a fisherman, neither shall Mignon. Madame la Marquise de la Caux is in Paris, and I do what I can to look after her belongings. Madame, Mignon’s mother, is in heaven, and the remnant of her people God knows where, and so I do what I can to look after their child.”
“But has the girl no say in the matter?” broke out Louis angrily. “You are not to live with him—she is.”
“That may make some difference in your country, Monsieur Louis, but it makes no difference in mine. In France we parents and guardians are the best judges of what is and what is not good for our children. Now, gentlemen, let us brush it all away. It is very creditable to your hearts to be so interested in the child; I do not blame you. She is very lovely and very amusing, and when she leaves us—even with the man I shall choose for her—it will be a great grief for me, for you see I am quite alone in the world. So, Monsieur Herbert, there is my hand. Not to have you understand me would be harder than all the rest, for I esteem you as I do no other man. And you too, Monsieur Louis, with your big arms and your big heart. Let us be friends once more. And now I am tired out with the day’s work, and if you do not mind I will say ‘Good-night!’”
VII
IN WHICH OUR LANDLORD BECOMES BOTH ENTERTAINING AND INSTRUCTIVE
The experiences of the previous day had left their mark in stiffened joints and blistered hands. Herbert was nursing a wrenched finger, Lemois had discovered a bruised back, and Louis a strained wrist—slight accidents all of them, unheeded in the excitement of the rescue, and only definitely located when the several victims got out of bed the next morning.
The real sufferer was Gaston. Two stitches had been taken in his shapely head and, although he was quite himself and restless as a goat, the doctor had given positive orders to Leà to keep him where he was until his wound should heal. To this Lemois had added another and far more cruel mandate, forbidding Mignon either outside or inside his bedroom door under pain of death, or words to that effect.
It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that the day was passed quietly, the men keeping indoors, although the storm had whirled down the coast, leaving behind it only laughing blue skies and a light wind.
The one exciting incident was a telegram from madame la marquise, thanking Lemois and his “brave body of men” for their heroic services and adding that she would come as soon as possible to inspect what she called her “ruin,” and would then give herself the pleasure of thanking each and every one in person. This was followed some hours later by a second despatch inquiring after the wounded fisherman and charging Lemois to spare no expense in bringing him back to health; and a third one from Marc saying he had gone to Paris and would not be back for several days.