Very simply, very gravely the young boy spoke these words, his delicate head uplifted, his face shining in the moon-rays, and his slight, childish form erect with a grace which was not born of pride so much as of endurance, and again the Cardinal trembled, though he knew not why.  Yet in his very agitation, the desire he had to persuade the tired child to go with him grew stronger and overmastered every other feeling.

“Come then,” he said, smiling and extending his hand, “Come, and you shall sleep in my room for the remainder of the night, and to-morrow we will talk of the future.  At present you need repose.”

The boy smiled gratefully but said nothing, and the Cardinal, satisfied with the mere look of assent walked with his foundling across the square and into the Hotel Poitiers.  Arrived at his own bed-room, he smoothed his couch and settled the pillows carefully with active zeal and tenderness.  The boy stood silently, looking on.

“Sleep now, my child,” said the Cardinal,—­“and forget all your troubles.  Lie down here; no one will disturb you till the morning.”

“But you, my lord Cardinal,” said the boy—­“Are you depriving yourself of comfort in order to give it to me?  This is not the way of the world!”

“It is my way,” said the Cardinal cheerfully,—­“And if the world has been unkind to you, my boy, still take courage,—­it will not always be unjust!  Do not trouble yourself concerning me; I shall sleep well on the sofa in the next room—­indeed, I shall sleep all the better for knowing that your tears have ceased, and that for the present at least you are safely sheltered.”

With a sudden quick movement the boy advanced and caught the Cardinal’s hands caressingly in his own.

“Oh, are you sure you understand?” he said, his voice growing singularly sweet and almost tender as he spoke—­“Are you sure that it is well for you to shelter me?—­I—­a stranger,—­poor, and with no one to speak for me?  How do you know what I may be?  Shall I not perhaps prove ungrateful and wrong your kindness?”

His worn little face upturned, shone in the dingy little room with a sudden brightness such as one might imagine would illumine the features of an angel, and Felix Bonpre looked down upon him half fascinated, in mingled pity and wonder.

“Such results are with God, my child,” he said gently—­“I do not seek your gratitude.  It is certainly well for me that I should shelter you,—­it would be ill indeed if I permitted any living creature to suffer for lack of what I could give.  Rest here in peace, and remember it is for my own pleasure as well as for your good that I desire you to sleep well.”

“And you do not even ask my name?” said the boy, half smiling and still raising his sorrowful deep blue eyes to the Cardinal’s face.

“You will tell me that when you please,” said Felix, laying one hand upon the soft curls that clustered over his foundling’s forehead—­“I am in no wise curious.  It is enough for me to know that you are a child and alone in the world,—­such sorrow makes me your servant.”