“Ah, my dear sir, what would not one do for the look by which Judith thanked me—­a look of thanks from dying eyes; I saw clearly that I had loved, and should love her always, and from that day her child found a place in my heart.  She died, poor woman, while the father and mother Jews and the papers were on the way.  The day before she died, she found strength enough to rise and dress herself for her wedding, to go through all the usual performance, and set her name to their pack of papers; then, when her child had a name and a father, she went back to her bed again; I kissed her hands and her forehead, and she died.

“That was my wedding.  Two days later, when I had bought the few feet of earth in which the poor girl is laid, I found myself the father of an orphan child.  I put him out to nurse during the campaign of 1815.  Ever since that time, without letting any one know my story, which did not sound very well, I have looked after the little rogue as if he were my own child.  I don’t know what became of his grandfather; he is wandering about, a ruined man, somewhere or other between Russia and Persia.  The chances are that he may make a fortune some day, for he seemed to understand the trade in precious stones.

“I sent the child to school.  I wanted him to take a good place at the Ecole Polytechnique and to see him graduate there with credit, so of late I have had him drilled in mathematics to such good purpose that the poor little soul has been knocked up by it.  He has a delicate chest.  By all I can make out from the doctors in Paris, there would be some hope for him still if he were allowed to run wild among the hills, if he was properly cared for, and constantly looked after by somebody who was willing to undertake the task.  So I thought of you, and I came here to take stock of your ideas and your ways of life.  After what you have told me, I could not possibly cause you pain in this way, for we are good friends already.”

“Commandant,” said Benassis after a moment’s pause, “bring Judith’s child here to me.  It is doubtless God’s will to submit me to this final trial, and I will endure it.  I will offer up these sufferings to God, whose Son died upon the cross.  Besides, your story has awakened tender feelings; does not that auger well for me?”

Genestas took both of Benassis’ hands and pressed them warmly, unable to check the tears that filled his eyes and coursed down his sunburned face.

“Let us keep silence with regard to all this,” he said.

“Yes, commandant.  You are not drinking?”

“I am not thirsty,” Genestas answered.  “I am a perfect fool!”

“Well, when will you bring him to me?”

“Why, to-morrow, if you will let me.  He has been at Grenoble these two days.”

“Good!  Set out to-morrow morning and come back again.  I shall wait for you in La Fosseuse’s cottage, and we will all four of us breakfast there together.”