“Yes!” replied Jean, “you are right in believing that.”

“Well, then, it is to you that I address myself.  You are a soldier, and courage is part of your profession.  Promise me to be brave.  Will you promise me?”

“What do you understand by being brave?”

“Promise, promise—­without explanations, without conditions.”

“Well, I promise.”

“You will then reply frankly, ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ to questions?”

“I will.”

“Did they say that I had begged in the streets of New York?”

“Yes, they said so.”

“Did they say I had been a rider in a travelling circus?”

“Yes; they said that, too.”

“Very well; that is plain speaking.  Now remark first that in all this there is nothing that one might not acknowledge if it were true; but it is not true, and have I not the right of denying it?  My history—­I will tell it you in a few words.  I am going to pass a part of my life in this place, and I desire that all should know who I am and whence I come.  To begin, then.  Poor!  Yes, I have been, and very poor.  Eight years ago my father died, and was soon followed by my mother.  I was then eighteen, and Bettina nine.  We were alone in the world, encumbered with heavy debts and a great lawsuit.  My father’s last words had been, ’Susie, never, never compromise.  Millions, my children, you will have millions.’  He embraced us both; soon delirium seized him, and he died repeating, ’Millions; millions!’ The next morning a lawyer appeared, who offered to pay all our debts, and to give us besides ten thousand dollars, if we would give up all our claims.  I refused.  It was then that for several months we were very poor.”

“And it was then,” said Bettina, “that I used to lay the cloth.”

“I spent my life among the solicitors of New York, but no one would take up my case; everywhere I received the same reply:  ’Your cause is very doubtful; you have rich and formidable adversaries; you need money, large sums of money, to bring such a case to a conclusion, and you have nothing.  They offer to pay your debts, and to give you ten thousand dollars besides.  Accept it, and sell your case.’  But my father’s last words rang in my ears, and I would not.  Poverty, however, might soon have forced me to, when one day I made another attempt on one of my father’s old friends, a banker in New York, Mr. William Scott.  He was not alone; a young man was sitting in his office.

“‘You may speak freely,’ said Mr. Scott; ‘it is my son Richard.’

“I looked at the young man, he looked at me, and we recognized each other.

“‘Susie!’

“’Richard!”

“Formerly, as children, we had often played together and were great friends.  Seven or eight years before this meeting he had been sent to Europe to finish his education.  We shook hands; his father made me sit down, and asked what had brought me.  He listened to my tale; and replied: