s sake that
I have acted, with the hope of sparing him the most horrible torture
that can overwhelm a man."

"It is in my husband's name that I thank you. I am thinking of him, and
of the sacrifice I must make for him."

"What sacrifice?"

"That of living, sir, when death would be so sweet. I am so weary."

And in fact the woman looked so ill, so prostrated, that the
superintendent feared some catastrophe. He answered compassionately,
"Keep up your courage, madame, and remember that your husband loves
you."

And Jack? Ah, he had his day of triumph! The superintendent ordered
a placard to be put up in all the buildings, announcing the boy's
innocence. He was feted and caressed. One thing only was lacking, and
that was news of Belisaire.

When the prison-doors were thrown open, the pedler disappeared. Jack was
greatly distressed at this, but nevertheless breakfasted merrily with
Zenaide and her soldier, and had forgotten all his woes, when D'Argenton
appeared, majestic and clothed in black. It was in vain that they
explained the finding of the money, the innocence of Jack, and that a
second letter had been sent narrating all these facts; in vain did these
good people treat Jack with familiar kindness: D'Argenton's manner did
not relax; he expressed in the choicest terms his regret that Jack had
given so much trouble.

"But it is I who owe him every apology," cried the old man.

D'Argenton did not condescend to listen: he spoke of honor and duty,
and of the abyss to which such evil conduct must always lead. Jack was
confused, for he remembered his journey to Nantes, and the stall in
which Zenaide's lover could testify to having seen him; he therefore
listened with downcast eyes to the ponderous eloquence of the lecturer,
who fairly talked Father Rondic to sleep.

"You must be very thirsty after talking so long," said Zenaide,
innocently, as she brought a pitcher of cider and a fresh cake. And the
cake looked so nice, so fresh and crisp, that the poet--who was, as we
know, something of an epicure--made a breach in it quite as large as
that in the ham made by Beli-saire at Aulnettes.

Jack had discovered one thing only from all D'Argenton's long words,--he
had learned that the poet had brought the money to rescue him from
disgrace, and the child began to believe that he had done the man great
injustice, and that his coldness was only on the surface. The boy,
therefore, had never been so respectful. This, and the