ad that her secret was known, and yet with blushes of shame dyeing the
cheeks that all the fresh breezes from the Loire had no power to
cool, she went on. Jack knew all this. No delicacy was observed in the
discussion of such subjects before the child. Things were called by
their right names, and they laughed as they talked. Jack did not laugh,
however. He pitied the husband so deluded and deceived. He pitied also
the woman whose weakness was shown in her very way of knotting her hair,
in the way she sat, and whose pleading eyes always seemed to be asking
pardon for some fault committed. He wanted to whisper to her, "Take
care--you are watched." But to Char-lot he would have liked to say, "Go
away, and let this woman alone!"

He was also indignant in seeing his friend Belisaire playing such a part
in this mournful drama. The pedler carried all the letters that passed
between the lovers. Many a time Jack had seen him drop one into Madame
Rondic's apron while she changed some money, and, disgusted with his old
ally, the child no longer lingered to speak when they met in the street.

Belisaire had no idea of the reason of this coolness. He suspected it
so little, that one day, when he could not find Clarisse, he went to the
machine-shop, and with an air of great mystery gave the letter to the
apprentice. "It is for madame; give it to her secretly!"

Jack recognized the writing of Chariot. "No," he said at once; "I will
not touch this letter, and I think you would do better to sell your hats
than to meddle with such matters."

Belisaire looked at him with amazement.

"You know very well," said the boy, "what these letters are; and do you
think that you are doing right to aid in deceiving that old man?"

The pedler's face turned scarlet.

"I never deceived any one; if papers are given to me to carry, I carry
them, that is all. Be sure of one thing, and that is, if I were the sort
of person you call me, I should be much better off than I am today!"

Jack tried to make him see the thing as he saw it, but evidently the
man, however honest, was without any delicacy of perception. "And I,
too," thought Jack, suddenly, "am of the people now. What right have I
to any such refinements?"

That Father Rondic knew nothing of all that was going on, was not
astonishing. But Zenaide, where was she? Of what was she thinking?

Zenaide was on the spot,--more than usual, too, for she had not been at
the chateau for a month. Her eyes