CHAPTER XII.

THE DISCOVERY.

HERSILIA, thinking it impossible to defer acquainting M. Philéas with the thought lessness of his protégé, related to him, in the best way she could, the occurrence of the previous evening; but in too vague a manner to satisfy him, for she was unable to tell him where either the florist or Célestin lived. Solomon's presence became

VOL. III.-NEW SERIES.

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indispensable. M. Philéas sent for him; and it was then that his absence was discovered. It occasioned, at first, only vexation and confusion. Angelique was questioned, and felt no difficulty in telling an untruth, by asserting that she had not seen him; for she merely looked on the humorous side of this adventure. The bewildered air of the servants, the unconnected words in which they communicated their fears to each other, the embarrassment of Hersilia, who knew the poor child's terror, the silent consternation of M. Philéas, whose uneasiness did not allow him to remain quiet, and who looked at his watch twenty times within a quarter of an hour, -all this diverted her extremely. Calm alone in the midst of general trouble, she delighted to think that a word from her would put an end to the confusion; and that so many, who pretended to be sensible people, appeared quite overcome because it did not suit her to pronounce that word. In spite of his system and apparent coolness, M. Philéas really loved Solomon, on whose account, indeed, he had only to congratulate himself; and who, he supposed, had intellect superior to what he actually possessed. If he had not been mistaken on this point, his preconceptions might have been disappointed, but he would not the less have done justice to the gentle and honourable disposition of his protege, who had thus endeared himself to the whole family. As the morning advanced without his re-appearing, M. Philéas became greatly alarmed.

"It is true," he thought to himself, "that he may have returned to the florist, or to the Rue St. Antoine; but for what purpose? And why does he not come back again? We might together succeed in searching out the truth; but what can he do without me or I attempt without him? Who knows, alas! but he may have been entrapped? Into whose hands may he not have fallen? There are so many wretches in this great city to whom the destruction of a child."

He did not finish-a horrible tremor came over him-tears deluged his stoic face; his grief was the deeper since he was accustomed to conceal it.

Towards three o'clock in the afternoon the ncise of the carriage that brought Madame Olympe home roused him from his sad reflections. He longed to see her, not only to ask her advice, but to unburden his mind. Therefore, without giving her time to reach her own apartment, he went before her into the dining-room; and, seating her exactly by the side of the closet in which Angelique and Solomon thus found themselves imprisoned, he hastened to tell her the cause of his trouble. "Now, my dear sister,” continued he in a tone of such distress as Madame Olympe had never before witnessed, "tell me what I ought to do-what have I to hope or fear? You must know that this unfortunate child left my house this morning without telling me his plans, leaving me in the dark as to his fate,―he, hitherto so gentle, so submissive. Can I come to any other conclusion than that he is the victim of some act of violence?"

Madame Olympe tried to dissipate so fearful an idea from his thoughts. She appealed to his usual presence of mind.

"Ah! I feel that my judgment abandons me at this single thought," continued M. Philéas. "You do not know, sister-I did not myself believe, how dear that child had become to me! If he be not of my own flesh and blood, he is, at least, the work of my imagination. His education occupies my mind; the desire to make him a good man is the most ardent I can form. How often have I awoke

in the night to entreat God to bless him! Yes, sister, the affection I bear him has rekindled in me devotional feelings which had for many years been stifled; and, if I have lost him, my happiness is destroyed for ever."

Whilst thus speaking the voice of this feeling man seemed broken by sobs, which he vainly strove to suppress. The door of the closet suddenly opened; and Solomon, bathed in tears, fell at the feet of his patron, whilst Angelique, who had uselessly opposed this abrupt proceeding, kept aloof, troubled and confused.

“Oh, my dear benefactor!" exclaimed Solomon, "forgive me for the sorrow I occasion you."

"Whence do you come ?" M. Philéas asked, much distressed. "What has happened to you during this long absence ?”

“He has not been absent, brother,” replied Madame Olympe. "I saw them come out of that closet, which has no other egress. Angelique, will you explain to us what you both were doing there?"

Angelique, being so straightly questioned, was obliged to tell the truth; but how can M. Philéas's indignation be depicted? The more he had suffered and exaggerated to himself the ground of his fears-the more he had shown affection for his careless pupil, so much the more also did he manifest his merited anger.

"What!" said he; "he was there whilst I was in despair at his flight! He heard me call him loudly, and exulted over my trouble! He has allowed me for seven hours

to be a prey to torturing anxiety when he had but to take one step to relieve me! And should I keep near me such a monster of ingratitude? No, no; let him return to his family,-I do not wish to see him again!"

Thunderstruck by these terrible words, Solomon remained on his knees without Laving strength to reply excepting by a flood of tears. Madame Olympe was vainly endeavouring to calm M. Philéas's anger when Dominique announced a visit from Pierre Chiron.

"Let him walk in," said the irritated philosopher impetuously; "he could not come more opportunely."

The poor gardener was greatly amazed at the picture which presented itself to his view. Anger, embarrassment, and sorrow reigned amongst the actors of the scene. With his hat in his hand, not knowing whether he should retire or stay, he stood at the door of the room. M. Phlicas then spoke

“Judge of what has taken place," said he to him; "you know what I have done for your son, and the sphere I have destined for him. Do these benefits merit his

affection?"

"Who doubts that, sir ?" replied Pierre, frankly.

"I have not, however, obtained it," continued M. Philéas; "and as that is the only reward I expected from him, I have not benevolence sufficient to continue my efforts for an ungrateful heart. Take him back, Pierre; I restore your son to you.' "Sir," replied the gardener, with a sorrowful air, "you do as you please; I thank you for the benefits you have conferred upon us. I do not murmur that you should discontinue them, but I grieve to learn that Solomon is not more worthy. I certainly thought he loved you."

“Ah, father !" exclaimed Solomon, rising, and throwing himself upon Pierre's neck, “believe it still, for it is the truth, as God can testify; especially now that I

know that I have heard things which will never be effaced from my memory. Sir," he continued, turning towards his benefactor, "I will not say that I do not deserve your anger; whatever my terror might be, I should have confessed my fault to you, confiding in your justice, instead of hiding myself. But, in sending me away, say, at least, that you forgive me."

This touching appeal quickly appeased M. Philéas. However, conquering his emotion and reassuming his accustomed gravity, he simply extended his hand to his protégé, who seized and kissed it with respect, while bathing it with tears.

"We will not part yet, Solomon," he said to him, "if it be true that, a witness this day of my partiality for you, you respond to my friendship without taking ad vantage of it."

“Ah, sir, if you knew how far I was from believing myself to be the object of such tender affection! I only felt how unworthy I was of it."

"Unworthy! and why?"

"Alas! I try in vain to attain those high virtues by which I ought to regulate my conduct; my progress ill responds to the excellency of your instructions.”

"It is right to be diffident,” replied M. Philéas, who then saw that he had carried his system of perfection to too great a length; "but I can say that you judge yourself too severely. We will refer to this subject another time; now that peace is made, let us talk a little about the affair of the watch."

"With your permission," rejoined Pierre, who was much pleased with the turn which the threatening aspect of matters had taken, "that is what I came expressly to settle. See, is not this the trinket that Solomon lost yesterday?"

"It is the same!" exclaimed Solomon; "how did it come to-day into your hands?"

"That cannot be explained in a few words," replied Pierre; "but if Monsieur and Madame could listen to me for half an hour, I would tell them a true story, as interesting as can be met with in books."

M. Philéas and his sister assured him they would like to hear it. Pierre Chiron took a chair, and first entered into the details of his meeting with Célestin, which we have already related.

CHAPTER XIII.

A POOR MAN'S GENEROSITY.

"BEFORE giving you an account of my visit to Rigobert," continued the gardener, "and the means I employed to obtain his forgiveness of Célestin, it will not be amiss to tell you something of this good old man. I was scarcely workman enough to turn over well a spadeful of earth when he took me into his service, at a time when he was himself in good circumstances, having the care of a fine large garden. Rigobert was then well off; he and his wife earned good wages, and were lodged in the house, but they deserved their prosperity, for both scrupulously fulfilled their duty without despising the ignorant and poor. I, who was both the one and the other, found in Rigobert an affectionate master, a true friend, ready to serve me. Not only did he teach me all he knew (and I can say that he is a clever gardener), but endeavoured also to cure certain bad habits which he soon discovered in me. I had lost my father at an early age; my mother, whose only child I am, always loved me too

tenderly to correct me as she ought to have done; besides, she could not follow me everywhere, and keep me from the bad acquaintances which insensibly caused my ruin, by inspiring me, when yet young, with a love of wine and cards. Yes, Solomon, and you, my daughter, I confess it in your presence, although it is a disgraceful thing; but as, thank God, I have since been cured of it, I hope you will not despise me on that account."

"Oh, father!" said Solomon, taking his hand, "can you ever suppose it ?"

"We should have profited very badly by the principles instilled into us,” added Angelique, looking at her godmother for a sign of approbation.

"Well, my children," replied Chiron, "you are already better than I was at fifteen years old, for without wishing to compare Rigobert with the respected friends who bring you up, it is certain that he talked to me sufficiently to make me a wise man, if I had listened to him patiently. Far from not appreciating the wisdom of his counsels, I even felt a desire to follow them, and during six days of the week Pierre Chiron was not worse than others, but all my good resolutions were put to flight on Sundays by the pressing invitations of my companions. I believe I sinned as much from weakness as from inclination. When I wished to marry Babet, my mother only consented on condition that I should give up my bad associates. I was still rather young to settle in life, but thanks to Rigobert's instructions, I understood my business well, and as I married an active, orderly woman, we could manage tolerably. The first year passed very well; without breaking-off openly with my friends, I avoided their parties of pleasure. However, I do not know how it happened, on Christmas Eve, the night on which the three children were born, I found myself at cards, and much the worse for having drunk more than I ought, when I should have been at home, or at church, praying to God for my poor wife. I was so ashamed and hurt at this, that I firmly resolved it should be my last declension from the right path. I was then a father; I felt that I ought to set a good example to my children, and God has given me grace to keep my resolution." "I congratulate you on it, my dear Chiron," said M. Philéas, “for it is rare that a reformation, effected so late in life, lasts. There are too many fathers who degrade themselves in the eyes of their children, by adhering, in advanced age, to the evil practices of their youth."

"What you are relating is interesting, I confess," continued Madame Olympe; "but I do not see exactly what it has to do with the missing watch."

"I will show you, Madame, I will show you," replied Pierre. "Amongst Jean Rigobert's children was a boy, the eldest of the family, named Célestin, whose engaging manner charmed every one. Inquisitive, full of talk, he asked the name of everything, handled the tools, and understood, better than I, the best fruits of the garden. His superiors were amused at his prating; his mother, astonished at his talent, built great hopes upon him, and I thought she was right; such, however, was not Rigobert's opinion, who used to say to us, 'I clearly perceive that Célestin is prompt in asking questions, but I also see that he scarcely listens to what is said in reply; therefore, it is less a desire for information which he possesses than a love of talking, and I have rarely seen a great talker acquire solid judgment.' I thought then that this observation was severe; subsequent events have but too well confirmed it. In growing up, Célestin has shown himself a giddy fellow, incapable