“Not your child?” They looked at him incredulously.
“I will tell you—in confidence,” said he.
Jean’s history was related in all its picturesque details; the horrors of the life of an enfant trouvé luridly depicted. The sisters listened with tears in their foolish eyes. Behind the tears Anne’s grew bright. When he had finished she stretched out her hand impulsively.
“Oh, I call it splendid of you!”
He took the hand and, in his graceful French fashion, touched it with his lips. She flushed, having expected, in her English way, that he would grasp it.
“Your commendation, mademoiselle, is sweet to hear,” said he.
“I hope he will grow up to be a true comfort to you, M. Pujol,” said Miss Janet.
“I can understand a woman doing what you’ve done, but scarcely a man,” said Miss Anne.
“But, dear mademoiselle,” cried Aristide, with a large gesture, “cannot a man have his heart touched, his—his—ses entrailles, enfin—stirred by baby fingers? Why should love of the helpless and the innocent be denied him?”
“Why, indeed?” said Miss Janet.