'Who was he? There was only one man in this century, and his name was Napoleon. Sir, I'm afraid you've learned history from Père Loriquet;' and the old soldier smiled.
'Yes, he was a man.'
'Sir, shake hands with me for that,' said Victor Chauvin, evidently flattered. 'But you must let the old soldier show his gratitude for your kindness to his child. I insist on it.'
'Well, if you will have it so, tell us why your grand-daughter is called the Song-bird, and we're repaid?'
'Because she sings like the nightingale; no, that's too sad. Like a canary; but that's a prisoner. I have it—like the morning-lark, for its song, fresh and pure, goes up to God's gates! Berthe, enter.'
At the call, our young acquaintance, the traces of her recent infirmities entirely removed, came radiantly into the room, smiling with an arch smile.
'Berthe, my Song-bird, treat those gentlemen, who, you have told me, have been so good to you, to a sample of your voice.'
'What shall I sing?' asked Berthe, approaching the piano.
'Sing the romance that friend Bénic wrote for you—le Vieil Irlandais—for these gentlemen are from that brave and faithful land; ay, brave and faithful, for it has known how to carry the sword without taking the cross from its hilt.'
The girl skilfully passed her fingers over the instrument, executing a tremulous prelude, and in a soft, sweet voice, trilled, to a pathetic air, the following touching verses, the old soldier joining in at the refrain which ended each: