“Well, then, good-bye until to-night,” said Ferragus, holding out his hand to the man, who had just replaced the bandage.

“Yes, to-night,” said the other, pressing his hand cordially.  “I wish I could see you past your sufferings.”

“To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal’s papers will be delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead forever,” said Ferragus.  “Those fatal marks which have cost us so dear no longer exist.  I shall become once more a social being, a man among men, and more of a man than the sailor whom the fishes are eating.  God knows it is not for my own sake I have made myself a Portuguese count!”

“Poor Gratien!—­you, the wisest of us all, our beloved brother, the Benjamin of the band; as you very well know.”

“Adieu; keep an eye on Maulincour.”

“You can rest easy on that score.”

“Ho! stay, marquis,” cried the convict.

“What is it?”

“Ida is capable of everything after the scene of last night.  If she should throw herself into the river, I would not fish her out.  She knows the secret of my name, and she’ll keep it better there.  But still, look after her; for she is, in her way, a good girl.”

“Very well.”

The stranger departed.  Ten minutes later Jules heard, with a feverish shudder, the rustle of a silk gown, and almost recognized by their sound the steps of his wife.

“Well, father,” said Clemence, “my poor father, are you better?  What courage you have shown!”

“Come here, my child,” replied Ferragus, holding out his hand to her.

Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it.

“Now tell me, what is the matter, my little girl?  What are these new troubles?”

“Troubles, father! it concerns the life or death of the daughter you have loved so much.  Indeed you must, as I wrote you yesterday, you must find a way to see my poor Jules to-day.  If you knew how good he has been to me, in spite of all suspicions apparently so legitimate.  Father, my love is my very life.  Would you see me die?  Ah!  I have suffered so much that my life, I feel it! is in danger.”

“And all because of the curiosity of that miserable Parisian?” cried Ferragus.  “I’d burn Paris down if I lost you, my daughter.  Ha! you may know what a lover is, but you don’t yet know what a father can do.”

“Father, you frighten me when you look at me in that way.  Don’t weigh such different feelings in the same scales.  I had a husband before I knew that my father was living—­”

“If your husband was the first to lay kisses on your forehead, I was the first to drop tears upon it,” replied Ferragus.  “But don’t feel frightened, Clemence, speak to me frankly.  I love you enough to rejoice in the knowledge that you are happy, though I, your father, may have little place in your heart, while you fill the whole of mine.”

“Ah! what good such words do me!  You make me love you more and more, though I seem to rob something from my Jules.  But, my kind father, think what his sufferings are.  What may I tell him to-day?”