ay, at all times, even in the lowest ebb
of his fortunes, there was that indescribable neatness and formality of
precision about all the exterior seemings of the ci-devant friend of
the prim Robespierre which belong to those in whom order and method are
strongly developed,--qualities which give even to neediness a certain
dignity. As the room and its owner met the eye of Gabriel, on whose
senses all externals had considerable influence, the ungrateful young
ruffian recalled the kind, tattered, slovenly uncle, whose purse he had
just emptied, without one feeling milder than disgust. Olivier Dalibard,
always careful, if simple, in his dress, with his brow of grave
intellectual power, and his mien imposing, not only from its calm, but
from that nameless refinement which rarely fails to give to the student
the air of a gentleman,--Olivier Dalibard he might dread, he might even
detest; but he was not ashamed of him.

"I said I would visit you, sir, if you would permit me," said Gabriel,
in a tone of respect, not unmingled with some defiance, as if in doubt
of his reception.

The father's slow full eye, so different from the sidelong, furtive
glance of Lucretia, turned on the son, as if to penetrate his very
heart.

"You look pale and haggard, child; you are fast losing your health
and beauty. Good gifts these, not to be wasted before they can be
duly employed. But you have taken your choice. Be an artist,--copy Tom
Varney, and prosper." Gabriel remained silent, with his eyes on the
floor.

"You come in time for my farewell," resumed Dalibard. "It is a comfort,
at least, that I leave your youth so honourably protected. I am about to
return to my country; my career is once more before me!"

"Your country,--to Paris?"

"There are fine pictures in the Louvre,--a good place to inspire an
artist!"

"You go alone, Father!"

"You forget, young gentleman, you disown me as father! Go alone! I
thought I told you in the times of our confidence, that I should marry
Lucretia Clavering. I rarely fail in my plans. She has lost Laughton,
it is true; but 10,000 pounds will make a fair commencement to fortune,
even at Paris. Well, what do you want with me, worthy godson of Honore
Gabriel Mirabeau?"

"Sir, if you will let me, I will go with you."

Dalibard shaded his brow with his hand, and reflected on the filial
proposal. On the one hand, it might be convenient, and would certainly
be economical, to rid himself evermore of the m