Astonished, almost speechless at the unexpected visit, George Duchene waited in silence for Lebrenn to speak. The latter said:
"Monsieur George, about six months ago you were assigned by your employer to attend to some repairs in my shop. I was very much pleased with your intelligence and skill."
"You proved as much to me, monsieur, by your kindness."
"You were entitled to it. I noticed that you were industrious, and anxious to learn. I was aware, besides, as all our neighbors are, of your worthy conduct towards your grandfather, who occupies these lodgings for the last fifteen years."
"Monsieur," remarked George, not a little embarrassed by these praises, "my conduct – "
"Is perfectly simple, is it not? Very well. Your job in my shop kept you three months. Very well pleased with our relations to each other, I said to you, and did so in all frankness: 'Monsieur George, we are neighbors; call and see me, either Sundays, or any other day after your work hours; I shall be pleased, very pleased.'"
"Indeed, monsieur, you said so."
"And yet, Monsieur George, you never set your foot in my house."
"I beg you, monsieur, do not attribute my reserve to either ingratitude or forgetfulness."
"What, then, should I attribute it to?"
"Monsieur – "
"Come, Monsieur George, be frank – you love my daughter."
The young man trembled from head to foot. His color left his cheeks, paleness and blushes alternated with each other. Finally he answered Lebrenn with a tremulous and moved voice:
"It is true, monsieur. I love mademoiselle, your daughter."
"So that, your work in my shop being done, you did not return to my house out of fear that your love might carry you away?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And you never mentioned your love to anyone, even to my daughter?"
"Never, monsieur."
"I knew it. But why did you refuse to place confidence in me, Monsieur George?"
"Monsieur," answered the embarrassed young man, "I – did – not dare – "
"Why not! Perchance because I am what is called a bourgeois– a rich man compared to you, who live from day to day by the wages that you earn?"
"Yes, monsieur."
After a moment's silence the merchant proceeded:
"Permit me, Monsieur George, to put a question to you. You may answer it, if you think proper."
"I listen, monsieur."
"About fifteen months ago, shortly after your discharge from the army, you expected to marry?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"A young flower girl, an orphan named Josephine Eloi?"
"Yes, monsieur; it is all so."
"Will you tell me the reason why the marriage did not take place?"
The young man colored; an expression of pain contracted his countenance; he hesitated to answer.
Lebrenn watched him attentively. Pained and surprised at George's silence, he could not withhold a bitter and severe cry:
"I see – seduction, then abandonment and oblivion. Your embarrassment proclaims it all but too loudly."
"You are mistaken, monsieur," George quickly answered. "My embarrassment and emotion are caused by cruel recollections. I shall tell you what happened. I never lie – "
"I know you do not, Monsieur George."
"Josephine dwelt in the same house with my employer. In that way I became acquainted with her. She was very pretty, and, although illiterate, highly gifted. I knew she was inured to work and poverty. I believed her wise. A bachelor's life weighed upon me. I also thought of my grandfather. A wife would have assisted me in taking better care of him. I proposed marriage to Josephine. She seemed delighted, and she herself named the date of our wedding. They lied to you, monsieur, who spoke of seduction and abandonment!"
"I believe you," said Lebrenn, cordially extending his hand to the young man. "I am happy to be able to believe you. But how did your marriage fall through?"
"A week before the day for our wedding Josephine disappeared, leaving a letter for me saying that all was broken off. I subsequently learned that, yielding to the evil advice of one of her girl friends, a lost woman, she followed her example. Having lived in misery all her life, enduring grievous privations despite her long hours, twelve and fifteen of work a day, Josephine recoiled before the life that I offered her – a life of toil and poverty like her own."
"And like so many others," interjected Lebrenn, "she succumbed to the temptations of a less toilsome life. Oh! Poverty! Poverty!"
"I have never seen Josephine again, monsieur. She is now, I am told, a coryphee in one of the public dancing halls. She dropped her old name for one that I do not know, coined according to her habit of improvising upon all manner of subjects some of the wildest of songs. In short, she is lost forever. And yet, the girl had excellent qualities of heart. You now understand, monsieur, the cause of the sad emotion that came over me when you mentioned Josephine's name a minute ago."
"Your emotion testifies in favor of your heart, Monsieur George. You have been calumniated. I doubted the truth of what I was told; I am now certain. Let us say no more upon that subject. I now wish to tell you what happened at my house three days ago. I was, in the evening, in my wife's room, together with my daughter. The girl had sat silent and meditative for a while. Suddenly, taking my hand and her mother's, she said to us: 'I have a secret to confide to you. I have long put off speaking, because I have long been reflecting, lest I speak hastily. I love Monsieur George Duchene' – "
"Great God! monsieur," cried George, clasping his hands, and seized with inexpressible ecstasy. "Is it possible! Mademoiselle, your daughter!"
"That was the language of my daughter to us," proceeded Lebrenn with deliberation. "'I am pleased, my child, at your frankness,' I answered her; 'but how came this love about?' 'First, father, through learning of George's conduct towards his grandfather; then through hearing you often praise his character, his industrious habits, and his efforts to cultivate his mind. Finally, he won his way to my heart with his gentle and refined manners, with his frankness, and his conversation, as I heard him talk with you. I never said to him a word that could make him suspect my sentiments for him. On his part, he never dropped his extreme reserve towards me. I would be happy were he to share the sentiments I entertain for him, and if you, father and mother, think such a marriage proper. If you think otherwise I shall respect your wishes, knowing that you respect my freedom. If I can not marry Monsieur George I shall remain single. You have often told me, father, that I had a will of my own. You will not doubt my resolution. If this marriage be out of the question, you will not find me either sulky or dejected. Your affection will console me. Ever happy, as in the past, I shall ever care for you, for mother and for brother. I have told you the truth. Now, I wish you to decide. I shall wait.'"
George listened to Lebrenn with ever increasing astonishment. He could not believe his own ears. Finally he cried in broken accents:
"Monsieur, is this a dream?"
"Not in the least. My daughter never was more wide awake, I assure you. I know the openness of her nature, also her firmness. Both my wife and I are certain of that – if this union can not be effected, Velleda's affection for us will not change, but neither will she marry anyone else. Now, then, seeing it is quite natural that a young and handsome girl of eighteen should marry, and seeing, furthermore, that Velleda's choice is worthy of herself and us, my wife and I, after mature reflection, might gladly decide to accept you as our son-in-law."
Impossible to describe the look of glad surprise, of intoxication, that was stamped upon George's features at these words of the merchant's. He remained mute, he seemed stupefied.
"Come, Monsieur George,"