“You love me, do you not?”

“Come to the point, father.  You want this money:  you cannot have it.”

She began to pick up the coins; her father silently helped her to gather them together and count the sum she had dropped; Marguerite allowed him to do so without manifesting the least distrust.  When two thousand ducats were piled on the table, Balthazar said, with a desperate air,—­

“Marguerite, I must have that money.”

“If you take it, it will be robbery,” she replied coldly.  “Hear me, father:  better kill us at one blow than make us suffer a hundred deaths a day.  Let it now be seen which of us must yield.”

“Do you mean to kill your father?”

“We avenge our mother,” she said, pointing to the spot where Madame Claes died.

“My daughter, if you knew the truth of the matter, you would not use those words to me.  Listen, and I will endeavor to exlain the great problem—­but no, you cannot comprehend me,” he cried in accents of despair.  “Come, give me the money; believe for once in your father.  Yes, I know I caused your mother pain:  I have dissipated—­to use the word of fools—­my own fortune and injured yours; I know my children are sacrificed for a thing you call madness; but my angel, my darling, my love, my Marguerite, hear me!  If I do not now succeed, I will give myself up to you; I will obey you as you are bound to obey me; I will do your will; you shall take charge of all my property; I will no longer be the guardian of my children; I pledge myself to lay down my authority.  I swear by your mother’s memory!” he cried, shedding tears.

Marguerite turned away her head, unable to bear the sight.  Claes, thinking she meant to yield, flung himself on his knees beside her.

“Marguerite, Marguerite! give it to me—­give it!” he cried.  “What are sixty thousand francs against eternal remorse?  See, I shall die, this will kill me.  Listen, my word is sacred.  If I fail now I will abandon my labors; I will leave Flanders,—­France even, if you demand it; I will go away and toil like a day-laborer to recover, sou by sou, the fortunes I have lost, and restore to my children all that Science has taken from them.”

Marguerite tried to raise her father, but he persisted in remaining on his knees, and continued, still weeping:—­

“Be tender and obedient for this last time!  If I do not succeed, I will myself declare your hardness just.  You shall call me a fool; you shall say I am a bad father; you may even tell me that I am ignorant and incapable.  And when I hear you say those words I will kiss your hands.  You may beat me, if you will, and when you strike I will bless you as the best of daughters, remembering that you have given me your blood.”

“If it were my blood, my life’s blood, I would give it to you,” she cried; “but can I let Science cut the throats of my brothers and sister?  No.  Cease, cease!” she said, wiping her tears and pushing aside her father’s caressing hands.