“Ah, then I shall die happy,” breathed the man.
“No! No! No!” almost screamed the child. “You shall not die.”
“Hush, my little one,” whispered the man. “Do not question the wisdom of the Almighty. My hour has come. Soon I shall be with my sires and with my sons and grandsons; with all the brave ones who have so nobly defended our beloved France.
“And as for you, my little one, you have here two friends and all my books. It is in the tin box behind the books, my will. I have no living kin. I have made you my heir. The books are worth much money. You are well provided for. Your friends here will see that they are not stolen from you, will you not?”
Florence and Lucile, too touched to trust themselves to speak, bowed their heads.
“As for myself,” the man went on in a hoarse whisper, “I have but one regret.
“Come close,” he beckoned to Lucile. “Come very close. I have something more to tell you.”
Lucille moved close to him, something seeming to say to her, “Now you are to hear the gargoyle’s secret.”
“Not many days ago,” he began, “I told you some of my life, but not all. I could not. My heart was too sore. Now I wish to tell you all. You remember that I said I took my books to Paris. That is not quite true. I started with all of them but not all arrived. One box of them, the most precious of all, was stolen while on the way and a box of cheap and worthless books put in its place.
“Heartbroken at this loss, I traced the robbers as best I could at last to find that the books had been carried overseas to America.