“My child, do you think I waited for your letter to save you from this threatened danger?  Do you know what will become of those who venture to touch your happiness, or come between us?  Have you never been aware that a second providence was guarding your life?  Twelve men of power and intellect form a phalanx round your love and your existence, —­ready to do all things to protect you.  Think of your father, who has risked death to meet you in the public promenades, or see you asleep in your little bed in your mother’s home, during the night-time.  Could such a father, to whom your innocent caresses give strength to live when a man of honor ought to have died to escape his infamy, could I, in short, I who breathe through your lips, and see with your eyes, and feel with your heart, could I fail to defend with the claws of a lion and the soul of a father, my only blessing, my life, my daughter?  Since the death of that angel, your mother, I have dreamed but of one thing,—­the happiness of pressing you to my heart in the face of the whole earth, of burying the convict,—­” He paused a moment, and then added:  “—­of giving you a father, a father who could press without shame your husband’s hand, who could live without fear in both your hearts, who could say to all the world, ’This is my daughter,’—­in short, to be a happy father.”

“Oh, father! father!”

“After infinite difficulty, after searching the whole globe,” continued Ferragus, “my friends have found me the skin of a dead man in which to take my place once more in social life.  A few days hence, I shall be Monsieur de Funcal, a Portuguese count.  Ah! my dear child, there are few men of my age who would have had the patience to learn Portuguese and English, which were spoken fluently by that devil of a sailor, who was drowned at sea.”

“But, my dear father—­”

“All has been foreseen, and prepared.  A few days hence, his Majesty John VI., King of Portugal will be my accomplice.  My child, you must have a little patience where your father has had so much.  But ah! what would I not do to reward your devotion for the last three years, —­coming religiously to comfort your old father, at the risk of your own peace!”

“Father!” cried Clemence, taking his hands and kissing them.

“Come, my child, have courage still; keep my fatal secret a few days longer, till the end is reached.  Jules is not an ordinary man, I know; but are we sure that his lofty character and his noble love may not impel him to dislike the daughter of a—­”

“Oh!” cried Clemence, “you have read my heart; I have no other fear than that.  The very thought turns me to ice,” she added, in a heart-rending tone.  “But, father, think that I have promised him the truth in two hours.”

“If so, my daughter, tell him to go to the Portuguese embassy and see the Comte de Funcal, your father.  I will be there.”

“But Monsieur de Maulincour has told him of Ferragus.  Oh, father, what torture, to deceive, deceive, deceive!”