ill tell you later if I have
the chance. No, the first condition exacted by my daughter, and dictated
by a feeling which is very pleasant to me, is that you promise never to
leave Paris."

"That I swear to, with all the pleasure in life!"

"Really? I feared you had some ties."

"Not one."

"Or dislike for Paris."

"No, Monsieur; only a preference for Paris, with freedom to indulge it.
Your second condition?"

"The second, to which my daughter and I both attach importance, is that
you should make your peace with your uncle. Flamaran tells me you have
quarrelled."

"That is true."

"I hope it is not a serious difference. A mere cloud, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately not. My uncle is very positive--"

"But at the same time his heart is in the right place, so far as I could
judge from what I saw of him--in June, I think it was."

"Yes."

"You don't mind taking the first step?"

"I will take as many as may be needed."

"I was sure you would. You can not remain on bad terms with your
father's brother, the only relative you have left. In our eyes this
reconciliation is a duty, a necessity. You should desire it as much as,
and even more than, we."

"I shall use every effort, Monsieur, I promise you."

"And in that case you will succeed, I feel sure."

M. Charnot, who had grown very pale, held out his hand to me, and tried
hard to smile.

"I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite at one, and that the hour
has come--"

He did not finish the sentence, but rose and went to open a door between
two bookcases at the end of the room.

"Jeanne," he said, "Monsieur Fabien accepts the two conditions, my
dear."

And I saw Jeanne come smiling toward me.

And I, who had risen trembling, I, who until then had lost my head at
the mere thought of seeing her, I, who had many a time asked myself in
terror what I should say on meeting her, if ever she were mine, I felt
myself suddenly bold, and the words rushed to my lips to thank her, to
express my joy.

My happiness, however, was evident, and I might have spared my words.

For the first half-hour all three of us talked together.

Then M. Charnot pushed back his armchair, and we two were left to
ourselves.

He had taken up a newspaper, but I am pretty sure he held it upside
down. In any case he must have been reading between the lines, for he
did not turn the page the whole evening.

He often cast a glance over the top of the paper, folded in four, to the
corn