I doubt if he goes to prison," said D'Argen-ton, with a shade of
regret in his voice; "the parents have paid the amount."

"Well, then, we have another establishment--the _Maison Paternelle_.
I have some of the circulars here in my pocket, and perhaps you would
glance over them, sir."

D'Argenton took the papers and turned back toward the house. The
carriage was coming down the avenue, and soon Charlotte, her color
heightened and her eyes bright with hope for her child, appeared.

"I have succeeded," she cried, as the poet entered the carriage.

"Ah!" he answered, dryly, relapsing into silence, turning over his
circulars with an air of affected interest. Charlotte, too, was silent,
supposing his pride wounded; and finally he was obliged to say, "You
succeeded, then?"

"Completely. It has always been his intention to give Jack, on his
coming of age, a present of ten thousand francs. He has given it to me
now. Six thousand will repay the money, and the other four thousand I am
to employ as I think best for my child's advantage."

"Employ it, then, in placing him in the _Maison Paternelle_, at Mertray,
for two or three years. It is there only that one can learn to make an
honest man from out of a thief."

She started, for the harsh word recalled her to reality. We know that in
that poor little brain impressions are very transitory.

"I am ready to do whatever you choose," she said, "you have been so good
and generous!"

The poet was enchanted; he was still master, and he proceeded to read
Charlotte a long lecture. Her maternal weakness was the cause of all
that had happened. The master-hand of a man was absolutely essential.
She did not answer, being occupied with joy at the thought of her child
not being sent to prison.

It was on Sunday morning that they reached Basse Indret. The poet went
at once to the superintendent's, while Charlotte remained alone at the
inn, for hotel there was none at the village. The rain beating against
the windows, and the loud talking in the house, gave her the first clear
impression she had received of the exile to which she had condemned her
boy. However guilty he might be, he was still her child--her Jack. She
remembered him as a little fellow, bright, intelligent, and sensitive,
and the idea that he would presently appear before her as a thief and in
a workman's blouse, seemed almost incredible. Ah! had she kept her child
with her, or had she sent him with other boys of his age