“’You are the blind man of the quarry?”

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘I have come to see you.’

“‘Thank you, sir.’

“‘You met with a sad misfortune there.’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“His voice was cold, short, without any emotion.  He expected nothing from any one.  I pronounced the words ‘assistance,’ ’public compassion.’

“‘Assistance!’ cried his wife, suddenly, with a tone of despair; ’they ought to give it to us; they must help us; we have done nothing to bring upon us this misfortune; they will not let my children die with hunger.’

“She asked for nothing—­begged for nothing.  She claimed help.  This imperative beggary touched me more than the common lamentations of poverty, for it was the voice of despair; and I felt in my purse for some pieces of silver.

“The man then, who had till now been silent, said, with a hollow tone,

“‘Your children must die, since I can no longer see.’

“There is a strange power in the human voice.  My money fell back into my purse.  I was ashamed of the precarious assistance.  I felt that here was a call for something more than mere almsgiving—­the charity of a day.  I soon formed my resolution.”

“But what could you do?” said the young man, to Mr. Desgranges.

“What could I do?” replied he, with animation.  “Fifteen days after, James was saved.  A year after, he gained his own living, and might be heard singing at his work.”

“Saved! working! singing! but how?”

“How! by very natural means.  But wait, I think I hear him.  I will make him tell you his simple story.  It will touch you more from his lips.  It will embarrass me less, and his cordial and ardent face will complete the work.”

In fact, the noise of some one taking off his wooden shoes was heard at the door, and then a little tap.

“Come in, James;” and he entered with his wife,

“I have brought Juliana, my dear Mr. Desgranges, the poor woman—­she must see you sometimes, must she not?”

“You did right, James.  Sit down.”

He came forward, pushing his stick before him, that he might not knock against a chair.  He found one, and seated himself.  He was young, small, vigorous, with black hair, a high and open forehead, a singularly expansive face for a blind man, and, as Rabelais says, a magnificent smile of thirty-two teeth.  His wife remained standing behind him.

“James,” said Mr. Desgranges to him, “here is one of my good friends, who is very desirous to see you.”

“He is a good man, then, since he is your friend.”

“Yes.  Talk with him; I am going to see my geraniums.  But do not be sad, you know I forbid you that.”

“No, no, my dear friend, no!”

This tender and simple appellation seemed to charm the young man; and after the departure of his friend, approaching the blind man, he said,

“You are very fond of Mr. Desgranges?”