Sylvestre Ker's little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihan's and fifty Matheline's; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were perfectly just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls lowest.
When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower, Pol commenced to sigh heavily, and said,—
"What a pity! What a great, great pity!"
"What is a pity?" asked Sylvestre Ker.
"It is a pity to miss such a rare opportunity."
Sylvestre Ker exclaimed, "What opportunity? So you were listening to my conversation with Matheline?"
"Why, yes," replied Pol. "I always have an ear open to hear what concerns you, my true friend. Seven years! Shall I tell you what I think? You would only have twelve months to wait to go with your mother to another Christmas Mass."
"I have promised," said Sylvestre.
"That is nothing: if your mother loves you truly, she will forgive you."
"If she loves me!" cried Sylvestre Ker. "Oh, yes, she loves me with her whole heart."