ence, and throughout the sleepy little town one could hear the
crashing of slates and chimney pots as they were dashed by the blast
onto the pavements of the streets.

"Come," suddenly said the major, rising, "my stopping here won't mend
matters. I have warned you--and now I'm off."

"What is to be done? To whom can we apply?" muttered the old woman
drearily.

"Don't give way--we must consider. If I only had the two thousand
francs--but you know that I am not rich."

The major stopped short in confusion. This old bachelor, wifeless and
childless, spent his pay in drink and gambled away at ecarte whatever
money his cognac and absinthe left in his pocket. Despite that, however,
he was scrupulously honest from a sense of discipline.

"Never mind," he added as he reached the threshold. "I'll begin by
stirring him up. I shall move heaven and earth! What! Burle, Colonel
Burle's son, condemned for theft! That cannot be! I would sooner burn
down the town. Now, thunder and lightning, don't worry; it is far more
annoying for me than for you."

He shook the old lady's hand roughly and vanished into the shadows of
the staircase, while she held the lamp aloft to light the way. When
she returned and replaced the lamp on the table she stood for a moment
motionless in front of Charles, who was still asleep with his face lying
on the dictionary. His pale cheeks and long fair hair made him look like
a girl, and she gazed at him dreamily, a shade of tenderness passing
over her harsh countenance. But it was only a passing emotion; her
features regained their look of cold, obstinate determination, and,
giving the youngster a sharp rap on his little hand, she said:

"Charles--your lessons."

The boy awoke, dazed and shivering, and again rapidly turned over the
leaves. At the same moment Major Laguitte, slamming the house door
behind him, received on his head a quantity of water falling from the
gutters above, whereupon he began to swear in so loud a voice that he
could be heard above the storm. And after that no sound broke upon the
pelting downpour save the slight rustle of the boy's pen traveling over
the paper. Mme Burle had resumed her seat near the chimney piece, still
rigid, with her eyes fixed on the dead embers, preserving, indeed, her
habitual attitude and absorbed in her one idea.

CHAPTER II

THE CAFE

The Cafe de Paris, kept by Melanie Cartier, a widow, was situated on the
Place du Palais, a large irregular sq