“It can be repaired only by us:  the Claes family has now no head.  To reach the stage of being neither father nor man, to have no consciousness of justice or injustice (for, in defiance of the laws, he has dissipated—­he, so great, so noble, so upright—­the property of the children he was bound to defend), oh, to what depths must he have fallen!  My God! what is this thing he seeks?”

“Unfortunately, dear Marguerite, wrong as he is in his relation to his family, he is right scientifically.  A score of men in Europe admire him for the very thing which others count as madness.  But nevertheless you must, without scruple, refuse to let him take the property of his children.  Great discoveries have always been accidental.  If your father ever finds the solution of the problem, it will be when it costs him nothing; in a moment, perhaps, when he despairs of it.”

“My poor mother is happy,” said Marguerite; “she would have suffered a thousand deaths before she died:  as it was, her first encounter with Science killed her.  Alas! the strife is endless.”

“There is an end,” said Emmanuel.  “When you have nothing left, Monsieur Claes can get no further credit; then he will stop.”

“Let him stop now, then,” cried Marguerite, “for we are without a penny!”

Monsieur de Solis went to buy up Claes’s notes and returned, bringing them to Marguerite.  Balthazar, contrary to his custom, came down a few moments before dinner.  For the first time in two years his daughter noticed the signs of a human grief upon his face:  he was again a father, reason and judgment had overcome Science; he looked into the court-yard, then into the garden, and when he was certain he was alone with his daughter, he came up to her with a look of melancholy kindness.

“My child,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it with persuasive tenderness, “forgive your old father.  Yes, Marguerite, I have done wrong.  You spoke truly.  So long as I have not found I am a miserable wretch.  I will go away from here.  I cannot see Van Claes sold,” he went on, pointing to the martyr’s portrait.  “He died for Liberty, I die for Science; he is venerated, I am hated.”

“Hated? oh, my father, no,” she cried, throwing herself on his breast; “we all adore you.  Do we not, Felicie?” she said, turning to her sister who came in at the moment.

“What is the matter, dear father?” said his youngest daughter, taking his hand.

“I have ruined you.”

“Ah!” cried Felicie, “but our brothers will make our fortune.  Jean is always at the head of his class.”

“See, father,” said Marguerite, leading Balthazar in a coaxing, filial way to the chimney-piece and taking some papers from beneath the clock, “here are your notes of hand; but do not sign any more, there is nothing left to pay them with—­”

“Then you have money?” whispered Balthazar in her ear, when he recovered from his surprise.