“Pictures!” he exclaimed, “pictures!—­and some of the old ones!”

He stopped short; his brow clouded; for a moment grief overcame him; he felt the weight of his wrong-doing as the vista of his humiliation came before his eyes.

“It is all your own, father,” said Marguerite, guessing the feelings that oppressed his soul.

“Angel, whom the spirits in heaven watch and praise,” he cried, “how many times have you given life to your father?”

“Then keep no cloud upon your brow, nor the least sad thought in your heart,” she said, “and you will reward me beyond my hopes.  I have been thinking of Lemulquinier, my darling father; the few words you said a little while ago have made me value him; perhaps I have been unjust to him; he ought to remain your humble friend.  Emmanuel has laid by nearly sixty thousand francs which he has economized, and we will give them to Lemulquinier.  After serving you so well the man ought to be made comfortable for his remaining years.  Do not be uneasy about us.  Monsieur de Solis and I intend to lead a quiet, peaceful life,—­a life without luxury; we can well afford to lend you that money until you are able to return it.”

“Ah, my daughter! never forsake me; continue to be thy father’s providence.”

When they entered the reception-rooms Balthazar found them restored and furnished as elegantly as in former days.  The guests presently descended to the dining-room on the ground-floor by the grand staircase, on every step of which were rare plants and flowering shrubs.  A silver service of exquisite workmanship, the gift of Gabriel to his father, attracted all eyes to a luxury which was surprising to the inhabitants of a town where such luxury is traditional.  The servants of Monsieur Conyncks and of Pierquin, as well as those of the Claes household, were assembled to serve the repast.  Seeing himself once more at the head of that table, surrounded by friends and relatives and happy faces beaming with heartfelt joy, Balthazar, behind whose chair stood Lemulquinier, was overcome by emotions so deep and so imposing that all present kept silence, as men are silent before great sorrows or great joys.

“Dear children,” he cried, “you have killed the fatted calf to welcome home the prodigal father.”

These words, in which the father judged himself (and perhaps prevented others from judging him more severely), were spoken so nobly that all present shed tears; they were the last expression of sadness, however, and the general happiness soon took on the merry, animated character of a family fete.