Mons. Sauvallier wept upon the neck of his little granddaughter, murmuring, "You also, my angel? Oh, that miserable boy!"
II.
Thus Camille's debt was paid, and the honour of the Sauvalliers was saved. But the father's fortune had gone!
He was able, however, to retain his business. He said to himself that he must work still, in spite of his threescore years; that he must labour incessantly, with the anxious ardour of those beginning life with nothing to rely upon save their own exertions.
He reduced his expenses, gave up his own house and went to live with his son, sold his carriage and horses, discharged his servants, and stinted himself in every possible way. Auguste became his designer, Auguste's wife his clerk. Each accepted his or her share of the burden bravely and uncomplainingly, as an important duty which must at any cost be accomplished.
The conduct of this old man, so jealous for his name, so upright, so courageous in misfortune, excited profound sympathy. All who knew him pitied him; orders flowed in, and soon a quite exceptional activity pervaded the establishment from basement to roof, inspiring Mons. Sauvallier with a little hope. But one persistent fear disturbed his sleep, and troubled his waking hours. It was that some day he might hear that Camille had been gambling again, and was once more in debt. He had forbidden all mention of his erring son, but the thought of him was ever present, and lay like an incubus upon his heart.
One year passed, then another. The foundry still flourished; work positively raged therein. It had no rest; it also, as though endowed with a conscience, did its duty nobly. Its furnaces glowed like ardent eyes; its mighty puffing and snorting shook the ground: the molten metal, red and fuming, flowed from its crucibles like blood from its body. At an early hour of the morning was heard its piercing summons to the work-people, and all the night long its glare illuminated the sky.
III.
The campaign of Tonquin was in full swing. In the midst of an unknown country, harassed by innumerable difficulties, the French soldiers were contending painfully with an irrepressible, ever-rallying foe. The smallest success served to excite the popular patriotism, and all awaited impatiently the tidings of a decisive victory.
One morning, Auguste, looking very pale, entered his father's office, and handed him a newspaper. There, amongst "Latest intelligence," Mons. Sauvallier read the following:—