"As for other matters, I do not read at all here. I have not Peyraque's eight or ten stray volumes and his big old Protestant Bible. I no longer try to improve myself; I hardly think of it even. I mend the clothing of my Didier, following him step by step; I dream, I am sad, but not rebellious, and not given to wondering any further about a state of things to which I ought to submit,—and I am in good health, which is the most important thing.
"Good old Peyraque comes in, bringing your letter. Ah! my sister, do not give up weakly, or I shall be in despair. You say he is pale, already ill; and this gave you so much pain that you came near betraying me. Camille, if you have not strength enough to see a courageous man suffer, and if you do not understand that my courage alone can support his, I will set out again; I will go farther away still, and you shall not know where I am. Consider yourself notified, that the day I see the mark of a strange foot upon the sand of my island, I shall disappear so entirely that—"
Caroline left the sentence unfinished; Peyraque, who had just given her Madame Heudebert's letter, came back saying, "Here is the gentleman coming."
"Who? what?" cried Caroline, rising and evidently quite troubled. "What gentleman?"
"The father of the unknown child,—M. Bernyer he calls himself."
"Then you know his name? No one here knew it or would tell it."
"On my word, I am not very curious; but he threw his valise on a bench at Roquebert's door, and my eye happened to fall upon it, so I read."
"Bernyer! I don't know any such person; perhaps I might show myself without getting into difficulty."
"Why, certainly you must see him, to tell him about the little one; now is the time."
Roquebert came in, however, and defeated Peyraque's design. M. Bernyer was asking for his son; but, according to his custom, he had gone into a room, reserved for him especially, and did not wish, just then, to see any one not of the family.