“But would she kill herself also?” demanded Pierre—­“And what has become of one or both bodies?”

“Ah!  There thou dost ask more than I can answer!” said Patoux.  “But what is very certain is, that both bodies, living or dead, have disappeared.  And as I said to my wife when she put these things into my head,—­for look you, my head is but a dull one, and if my wife did not put things into it, it would be but an emptiness altogether,—­I said to my wife that if she were right in her suspicions—­and she generally is right—­this Marguerite had taken but a just vengeance.  For you will not prove to me that there is any man living who has the right to take the joy out of a woman’s soul and destroy it.”

“It is done every day!” said Midon with a careless shrug,—­“Women give themselves too easily!”

“And men take too greedily!” said Patoux obstinately—­“What virtue there is in the matter is on the woman’s side.  For she mostly gives herself for love’s sake,—­but the man cares naught save for his own selfish pleasure.  As a man myself, I am on the side of the woman who revenges herself on her betrayer.”

“For that matter so am I!” said Midon.  “Women have a hard time of it in this world, even under the best of circumstances,—­and whatever man makes it harder for them, should be horse-whipped within an inch of his life, if I had my way.  I have a wife—­and a young daughter—­ and my old mother sits at home with us, as cheery and bright a body as you would find in all France,—­and so I know the worth of women.  If any rascal were to insult my girl by so much as a look, he would find himself in the ditch with a sore back before he had time to cry ‘Dieu merci!’”

He laughed;—­Patoux laughed with him, and then went on,—­

“I told thee of the miracle in my house, and of the boy the Cardinal found in the streets,—­well!—­these things have had their good effect in my own family.  My two children, Henri and Babette—­ah!  What children!  God be praised for them!  As bright, as kind as the sunlight,—­and their love for me and their mother is a great thing—­ a good thing, look you!—­one cannot be sufficiently grateful for it.  For nowadays, children too often despise their parents, which is bad luck to them in their after days; but ours, wild as they were a while ago, are all obedience and sweetness.  I used often to wonder what would become of them as they grew up—­for they were wilful and angry-tempered, and ofttimes cruel in speech—­but I have no fear now.  Henri works well at his lessons, and Babette too,—­and there is something better than the learning of lessons about them,—­something new and bright in their dispositions which makes us all happy.  And this has come about since the Cardinal stayed with us; and also since the pretty boy was found outside the Cathedral!”

“That boy seems to have impressed thee more than the Cardinal himself!” said Midon—­“but now I remember well—­on the day the Abbe Vergniaud preached his last sermon, and was nearly shot dead by his own son, there was a rumour that his life had been saved by some boy who was an attendant on the Cardinal, and who interposed himself between the Abbe and the flying bullet,—­that must have been the one you mean?”