"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."
Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an agitated voice:--
"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please." Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.
Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--
"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him, and excuse his retirement."
He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.
When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear:--
"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you needless annoyance."
Soon after Samuel appeared at the salon of the Wtorkowskas. The siren was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening, forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement, he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.
"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an important matter that concerns you."