“Why did I not stay in America?” he said.

“Because you were too unhappy, my poor boy!” Madame Cormier said, whose maternal heart was moved by this cry.

“Am I happier here, or shall I be to-morrow?  What does this to-morrow, full of uncertainty and dangers, hold for us?”

“Why do you insist that it has only dangers?” Phillis asked, in a conciliating and caressing tone.

“You always expect the good.”

“At least I hope for it, and do not admit deliberately that it is impossible.  I do not say that life is always rose-colored, but neither is it always black.  I believe it is like the seasons.  After winter, which is vile, I confess, come the spring, summer, and autumn.”

“Well, if I had the money necessary for the voyage, I would go and pass the end of the winter in a country where it would be less disagreeable than here, and, above all, less dangerous for my constitution.”

“You do not say that seriously, I hope?” cried Madame Cormier.

“On the contrary, very seriously.”

“We are hardly reunited, and you think of a separation,” she said, sadly.

“It is not of a separation that Florentin thinks,” cried Phillis, “but of a flight.”

“And why not?”

“Because only the guilty fly.”

“It is exactly the contrary.  The intelligent criminals stay, and, as generally they are resolute men, they know beforehand that they are able to face the danger; while the innocent, timid like myself, or the unlucky, lose their heads and fly, because they know beforehand, also, that if a danger threatens them, it will crush them.  That is why I would return to America if I could pay my passage; at least I should feel easy there.”

There was a moment of silence, during which each one seemed to have no thought but to finish dinner.

“Granting that this project is not likely,” Florentin said, “I have another idea.”

“Why do you have ideas?” Phillis asked.

“I wish you were in my place; we should see if you would not have them.”

“I assure you that I am in your place, and that your trouble is mine, only it does not betray itself in the same manner.  But what is your idea?”

“It is to find Valerius and tell him all.”

“And who will answer to us for Valerius’s discretion?” asked Madame Cormier.  “Would it not be the greatest imprudence that you could commit?  One cannot play with a secret of this importance.”

“Valerius is an honest man.”

“It is because he cannot work when political, or rather patriotic, affairs go wrong, that you say this.”

“And why not?  With a poor man who lives in a small way by his work, are not this care and pride in his country marks of an honorable heart?”

“I grant the honorable heart, but it is another reason for being prudent with him,” Phillis said.  “Precisely because he may be what you think, reserve is necessary.  You tell him what is passed.  If he accepts it and your innocence, it is well; he will not betray your secret voluntarily nor by stupidity.  But he will not accept it; he will look beyond.  He will suppose that you wish to deceive him, and he will suspect you.  In that case, would he not go and tell all to the police commissioner of our quarter?  As for me, I think it is a danger that it would be foolish to risk.”