There was a pause.  Henri’s head drooped, and quick tears filled his eyes.  He said nothing further, but turned to assist Babette in guiding the little Fabien’s hesitating steps as he hobbled from the room.  The emotional Madame Patoux choked back a rising sob.

“God bless you Monseigneur!” she murmured—­“Henri will not forget those words—­the lad has a hasty temper, but a good heart—­yes, believe me—­a good heart—­”

“That I am sure of”—­responded the Cardinal—­“He is quick and intelligent—­and seeks to know the truth.  If he could feel an asserted ‘truth’ to be really true, I am confident he would frame his life upon it, and be a good, brave man.  Yes—­he is a clever lad,—­and our modern system of education pushes the brain to a precocity exceeding bodily years,—­his impatience and anger only come from puzzling over what he finds it difficult to understand.  It is all a puzzle to him—­all a puzzle!—­as it is to most of us!” He sighed—­then added in a lighter tone—­“I shall want nothing more at your kindly hands, my daughter.  I have decided to leave Rouen for Paris to-day and will take an early afternoon train.  Manuel”—­and he hesitated a moment—­“Manuel will go with me.”

Madame was scarcely surprised at this announcement.  She had indeed expected it.  She glanced at Manuel himself to see how he accepted this sudden change in his fortunes, but he was entirely absorbed in watching Henri and Babette lead their little crippled friend away.  After all, there was nothing to be said.  The Cardinal was a free agent,—­he had a perfect right to befriend a homeless boy and give him sustenance and protection if he chose.  He would make, thought Madame, a perfect acolyte, and would look like a young angel in his little white surplice.  And so the good woman, deciding in her own mind that such was the simple destiny for which the Cardinal intended him, smiled, murmured something deferential and approving, and hastened from the room, to prepare for Monseigneur, whether he asked for it or not, a dish of her most excellent soup, to strengthen and support him before starting on his journey.  And ere four o’clock had chimed from all the towers of the city, the Hotel Poitiers was deprived of its honoured guest,—­the Cardinal, accompanied by his foundling, had departed, and the black, smoky, snake-like train had rushed with them through the smiling peace of the Normandy pasture-lands on towards the brilliant “city enthroned in wickedness,” which sparkles like a jewel on the borders of the Seine as gloriously as ever Babylon sparkled on the shores of Euphrates.  As godless, as hollow to the very core of rottenness, as her sister of ancient days, wanton “Lutetia” shines,—­with the ghastly and unnatural lustre of phosphorescent luminance arising from old graves—­and as divinely determined as the destruction of the old-time city splendid, is the approaching downfall of the modern capital.  To the inhabitants of Rouen, the very name of Paris carries with it a kind of awe,—­it