Avarice-Anger Part 46

"There is no undoing that which is done."

"I declare, since monsieur went into business and took you for his clerk, there is many a soldier at the Invalides that isn't half as much battered up as you are. How on earth did you lose your eye?"

"The fact is, my sight has been failing for some time past, so I decided to put on spectacles. I went to purchase a pair. It was at Lyons. Ah, that rascally optician!" exclaimed Segoffin, shaking his fist in a sort of retrospective rage.

"Calm yourself, Segoffin, and go on with your story."

"It was a splendid day, and the optician's shop stood in a blaze of sunlight on the Quai du Rhone, my dear,--in a blaze of sunlight, remember that."

"What difference does that make?"

"A vast amount of difference. I asked to try some spectacles. The scoundrel handed me a pair. I put them on my nose. Just at that moment loud screams were heard on the quay, and curiosity naturally caused me to run to the door."

"Of course."

"I ran to the door, I say, with the spectacles still on my nose, and I was looking all around, first to the right, then to the left, to see where the cries came from, when, happening to look up, I had very much the same feeling in my right eye as if the ball had been pierced by a red-hot iron."

"Good Heavens! what caused it?"

"One of the gla.s.ses in the pair which the optician had given me was of great magnifying power," replied Segoffin, "and when I looked up and the noonday sun shone full on my gla.s.ses, it converted the lens I speak of into a sort of burning-gla.s.s. My eye was burned out. You could positively hear it sizzle."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Dame Roberts. "Did you really lose your eye in that way?"

"There is no undoing that which is done. But I will say this much, since I have had but one eye that one has been doing the work of two in the most remarkable manner. I have the eyes or rather the eye of fifteen, so to me you look as handsome, as handsome as if you were fifteen, my dear."

"I have no such juvenile eyes, my poor Segoffin, so I see you exactly as you are. I certainly regret the accident exceedingly, and I truly hope this will be the last. Did monsieur have a satisfactory trip, and is he well?"

"Perfectly."

"And his fits of despondency when he thinks of madame's death?"

"He has them still. He shuts himself up alone for several hours, and when he appears again one can see that he has been weeping."

"And his disposition?"

"I am a regular firebrand in comparison."

"Then he evinces no more temper while travelling than he does here?"

"Not a bit more."

"And really when one remembers what monsieur was a dozen years ago, Segoffin!"

"There is as much difference as there is between day and night."

"That reminds me that Mlle. Sabine had another of her nervous attacks to-day, when something reminded her of her poor mother's death. How fortunate it is that she did not recognise monsieur in his Breton costume on that terrible night. The poor child still believes that it was a stranger who killed her mother."

"And she must never be allowed to suspect anything to the contrary."

"The complete change in monsieur's character makes that a comparatively easy matter."

"All the effect of a business career. When monsieur lost his position after poor madame's death, he said to himself: 'I have barely enough to support my daughter for a few years. I was evidently not intended for a judicial career. I have a taste for commerce, so I will try commerce.'

And a very wise decision it has proved on his part, for he has not only acc.u.mulated a handsome fortune for his daughter, but transformed himself into the most lamb-like of men, and you have commerce to thank for it all; for you must see for yourself that if a merchant went about beating his customers over the head and kicking them in the stomach, he wouldn't make many sales."

"You are and always will be the same exasperating creature, Segoffin!"

exclaimed the housekeeper, impatiently. "Years of travel and business have made no change in you, mentally, understand; physically--it is different--"

"Hold, my ungrateful friend," said Segoffin, drawing a peculiarly shaped box from his pocket, and gallantly offering it to Suzanne. "This is the way in which I avenge myself for your abuse."

"What is it, Segoffin?"

"Some little tokens of friendly regard, for you know that in your secret heart you are really very fond of me."

But as the housekeeper opened the box, and unfolded a piece of paper in which the present was wrapped, she recoiled almost in terror.

"The paper is burnt at one end, and stained with blood at the other,"

she exclaimed, in dismay.

"Oh, yes," replied M. Cloarek's clerk, imperturbably, "it is a piece of--no matter what, that I used to light my candle with, and when I was wrapping the pin and the earrings up, I p.r.i.c.ked my finger,--awkward as usual, you see."

The housekeeper took out a pair of enormous gold earrings, and a large gold pin ornamented with an anchor surmounted by a crown. We will here add, for the information of the reader, that in those days sailors in the royal navy of England still wore earrings, and fastened their woollen s.h.i.+rts with large gold or silver pins.

The housekeeper, more grateful for the kindly feeling than for the present itself, as she had no intention of dragging down her ears with these rings, fastened the pin in her dress.

"Really, you are too kind," she said. "These earrings and this pin, especially, are in perfect taste, and as we live so near the sea the selection of a pin surmounted with an anchor is extremely appropriate.

But here, M. Traveller," continued Suzanne, taking the red worsted comforter she had been knitting from the table, "you see you are not the only person who thinks of the absent."

"What, Suzanne, this comforter--"

"Is intended to keep you warm and comfortable in the winter."

"Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, I shall never forget--"

But Segoffin's protestations of grat.i.tude were, unfortunately, interrupted by the entrance of M. Cloarek and his daughter, arm in arm.

Yvon, who was now forty-two years of age, had changed very little in appearance. His hair was beginning to turn gray, and his skin was much sunburned; but he seemed to have gained in strength and vigour, his face was radiant, and his eyes were full of joyful tears.

"Come and let me take a good look at you, my child," he exclaimed, as he led his daughter to the light, and gazed at her with anxious tenderness, as if to satisfy himself that the health of this idolised child had improved since they parted; then, again enfolding her tenderly in his arms, he added:

"Ah, my beloved child, I can embrace you with a thankful heart, for I can see that you are much stronger than when I went away."

Then, addressing Dame Roberts for the first time, he said, with a friendly shake of the hand:

"I thank you with all my heart for your care and attentions, Suzanne, for I know how much you must have aided in Sabine's restoration to health."

And again turning to his daughter, Cloarek held out his arms.

"One more embrace, my child, one more!" he cried.