nd moralize young offenders on
their release from prison. And it was in this wise that she had become
acquainted with Alexandre-Honore, now a big fellow of two-and-thirty,
who had just completed a term of six years' imprisonment. He had ended
by telling her his true story, speaking of Rougemont, naming Norine his
mother, and relating the fruitless efforts that he had made in former
years to discover his father, who was some immensely wealthy man. In the
midst of it, Seraphine suddenly understood everything, and in particular
why it was that his face had seemed so familiar to her. His striking
resemblance to Beauchene sufficed to throw a vivid light upon the
question of his parentage. For fear of worry, she herself told him
nothing, but as she remembered how passionately Constance had at one
time striven to find him, she went to her and acquainted her with her
discovery.

"He knows nothing as yet," Constance explained to Morange. "My
sister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who will
find him a good situation. It appears that he now asks nothing better
than to work. If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, there
have been many excuses for it! And, besides, I will answer for him as
soon as he is in my hands; he will then only do as I tell him."

All that Constance knew respecting Alexandre's recent years was a story
which he had concocted and retailed to Seraphine--a story to the effect
that he owed his long term of imprisonment to a woman, the real culprit,
who had been his mistress and whom he had refused to denounce. Of course
that imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out of
the twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the six
others, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominy
and crime. On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had a
restful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmer
and keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer.
And cleansed, clad, and schooled by Seraphine, he had almost become a
presentable young man.

Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had been
staring so fixedly.

"Well, what do you want to do with him?" he inquired. "Does he write a
decent hand?"

"Yes, his handwriting is good. No doubt, however, he knows very little.
It is for that reason that I wish to intrust him to you. You will polish
him up for me and make hi