“What!” said Mr. de Roisel, observing it, “can it be past eleven?”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied Marianne; “pardon me, it is not yet ten. That clock is an excellent one, only if you do not understand its ways, it is apt to mislead. The thieves did not take anything from this room last night: they seemed to know where the valuable things were to be found. The furniture of this room, sir, my master sometimes says would not sell for fifty francs altogether: still it is of value to him—and to me also,—for it belonged to his grandmother, my first mistress. This old furniture is associated with the recollection of one we loved. These drawings were made by her, and her husband had them framed as you see. My master adored his grandmother, and these old things are precious to him for her sake.”
Mr. de Roisel felt a strong sympathy for the man who united such tenderness of heart with the rare intellect which had made him celebrated. Maurice also was touched, and took the withered hand of Marianne in his own.
“You are very good, my little gentleman; you remind me of my master in his childhood.” Then she went on: “After the death of my first mistress, I served the mother of Mr. Duberger. She died too young to see the success and honours of her son: I have never quitted my master since.”
At this moment Mr. Duberger entered.
“Leave us now, my good Marianne,” said he. Then embracing Maurice, he exclaimed: “Why, how you have grown! I think the good God watches over children that have kind hearts. You have been growing up in happiness and health, as a flower blossoms in the spring-time.” Then turning to Mr. de Roisel, he added: “I received your letter, sir, and regret very much indeed that the day of your coming was postponed.”
“I fear we have come at a very inconvenient time.”
“Oh, it is not that; but you are one day too late.” Then taking Maurice on his knee, he went on: “You are a brave boy, and no doubt have deprived yourself of a good deal in collecting these hundred francs; but they are useless after all. When we met in the Luxembourg gardens, I thought it better for you that your charity to the poor woman should cost you some real sacrifice; but I was wrong to take your horse in pledge for the money. Now I am your debtor, and a debtor who cannot pay.”
“I understand,” said Maurice, as he burst into tears; “the thieves carried off Cressida last night. But it is not your fault.”
“Yes, yes, it is my fault. I was wanting in prudence; I kept neither doors nor windows fastened. I am much to blame.”