“Behold, Monsieur, all these dusty specimens, these revolting fragments.  How have you blushed to know that our idle people laugh in their sleeves at these things!  How have you blushed—­and you his father!  But why did you not ask me?  I could have told you:  ’Sir, your son is not an apothecary; not one of these ugly things but has helped him on in the glorious path of discovery; discovery, General—­your son—­known in Europe as a scientific discoverer!’ Ah-h! the blind people say, ’How is that, that General Villivicencio should be dissatisfied with his son?  He is a good man, and a good doctor, only a little careless, that’s all.’  But you were more blind still, for you shut your eyes tight like this; when, had you searched for his virtues as you did for his faults, you, too, might have known before it was too late what nobility, what beauty, what strength, were in the character of your poor, poor son!”

“Just Heaven!  Madame, you shall not speak of my son as of one dead and buried!  But, if you have some bad news”—­

“Your son took your quarrel on his hands, eh?”

“I believe so—­I think”—­

“Well; I saw him an hour ago in search of your slanderer!”

“He must find him!” said the General, plucking up.

“But if the search is already over,” slowly responded Madame.

The father looked one instant in her face, then rose with an exclamation: 

“Where is my son?  What has happened?  Do you think I am a child, to be trifled with—­a horse to be teased?  Tell me of my son!”

Madame was stricken with genuine anguish.

“Take your chair,” she begged; “wait; listen; take your chair.”

“Never!” cried the General; “I am going to find my son—­my God!  Madame, you have locked this door!  What are you, that you should treat me so?  Give me, this instant”—­

“Oh!  Monsieur, I beseech you to take your chair, and I will tell you all.  You can do nothing now.  Listen! suppose you should rush out and find that your son had played the coward at last!  Sit down and”—­

“Ah!  Madame, this is play!” cried the distracted man.

“But no; it is not play.  Sit down; I want to ask you something.”

He sank down and she stood over him, anguish and triumph strangely mingled in her beautiful face.

“General, tell me true; did you not force this quarrel into your son’s hand?  I know he would not choose to have it.  Did you not do it to test his courage, because all these fifteen years you have made yourself a fool with the fear that he became a student only to escape being a soldier?  Did you not?”

Her eyes looked him through and through.

“And if I did?” demanded he with faint defiance.

“Yes! and if he has made dreadful haste and proved his courage?” asked she.

“Well, then,”—­the General straightened up triumphantly—­“then he is my son!”