“He knows nothing as yet,” Constance explained to Morange.  “My sister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who will find him a good situation.  It appears that he now asks nothing better than to work.  If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, there have been many excuses for it!  And, besides, I will answer for him as soon as he is in my hands; he will then only do as I tell him.”

All that Constance knew respecting Alexandre’s recent years was a story which he had concocted and retailed to Seraphine—­a story to the effect that he owed his long term of imprisonment to a woman, the real culprit, who had been his mistress and whom he had refused to denounce.  Of course that imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out of the twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the six others, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominy and crime.  On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had a restful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmer and keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer.  And cleansed, clad, and schooled by Seraphine, he had almost become a presentable young man.

Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had been staring so fixedly.

“Well, what do you want to do with him?” he inquired.  “Does he write a decent hand?”

“Yes, his handwriting is good.  No doubt, however, he knows very little.  It is for that reason that I wish to intrust him to you.  You will polish him up for me and make him conversant with everything.  My desire is that in a year or two he should know everything about the factory, like a master.”

At that last word which enlightened him, the accountant’s good sense suddenly awoke.  Amid the manias which were wrecking his mind, he had remained a man of figures with a passion for arithmetical accuracy, and he protested.

“Well, madame, since you wish me to assist you, pray tell me everything; tell me in what work we can employ this young man here.  Really now, you surely cannot hope through him to regain possession of the factory, re-purchase the shares, and become sole owner of the place?”

Then, with the greatest logic and clearness, he showed how foolish such a dream would be, enumerating figures and fully setting forth how large a sum of money would be needed to indemnify Denis, who was installed in the place like a conqueror.

“Besides, dear madame, I don’t understand why you should take that young man rather than another.  He has no legal rights, as you must be aware.  He could never be anything but a stranger here, and I should prefer an intelligent, honest man, acquainted with our line of business.”

Constance had set to work poking the fire logs with the tongs.  When she at last looked up she thrust her face towards the other’s, and said in a low voice, but violently:  “Alexandre is my husband’s son, he is the heir.  He is not the stranger.  The stranger is that Denis, that son of the Froments, who has robbed us of our property!  You rend my heart; you make it bleed, my friend, by forcing me to tell you this.”