is arms, and strain him to my heart, crying, 'My father, my father!'
like Monsieur Pixerecourt." [*]

"Do not let us jest," gravely replied Bertuccio, "and dare not to utter
that name again as you have pronounced it."

* Guilbert de Pixerecourt, French dramatist
(1775-1844).

"Bah," said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of Bertuccio's
manner, "why not?"

"Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by heaven to be
the father of such a wretch as you."

"Oh, these are fine words."

"And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care."

"Menaces--I do not fear them. I will say"--

"Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?" said
Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look, that
Andrea was moved to the very soul. "Do you think you have to do with
galley-slaves, or novices in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen into
terrible hands; they are ready to open for you--make use of them. Do not
play with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which
they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their
movements."

"My father--I will know who my father is," said the obstinate youth; "I
will perish if I must, but I will know it. What does scandal signify
to me? What possessions, what reputation, what 'pull,' as Beauchamp
says,--have I? You great people always lose something by scandal,
notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah," cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just then the door
opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said,--"Excuse
me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the prisoner."

"And so closes our interview," said Andrea to the worthy steward; "I
wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!"

"I will return to-morrow," said Bertuccio.

"Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns
for me at the gate that I may have some things I am in need of!"

"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio. Andrea extended his hand;
Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and merely jingled a few pieces
of money. "That's what I mean," said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite
overcome by the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio. "Can I be deceived?"
he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and grated vehicle which they
call "the salad basket." "Never mind, we shall see! To-morrow, then!" he
added, turning towards Bertuccio.

"