M. Charnot made his customary bow.

“One of my friends is in love with her.  He is shy, and dares not tell his love.  We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the idea of making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could not mistake it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing it and guessing its meaning.  I trusted she would recall to her mind, not myself, for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is of the age and build of a lover.  If this was a crime, Monsieur, I am ready to take the blame for it upon myself, for I alone committed it.”

“It certainly was criminal, Monsieur; criminal in you, at any rate—­you who are a man of weight, respected for your talent and your character—­to aid and abet in a frivolous love-affair.”

“It was the deepest and most honorable sentiment, Monsieur.”

“A blaze of straw!”

“Nothing of the sort!”

“Don’t tell me!  Your friend’s a mere boy.”

“So much the better for him, and for her, too!  If you want a man of middle age for your son-in-law, just try one and see what they are worth.  You may be sorry that you ever refused this boy, who, it is true, is only twenty-four, has little money, no decided calling, nor yet that gift of self-confidence which does instead of merit for so many people; but who is a brave and noble soul, whom I can answer for as for myself.  Go, Monsieur, you will find your daughter great names, fat purses, gold lace, long beards, swelling waistbands, reputations, pretensions, justified or not, everything, in short, in which he is poor; but him you will never find again!  That is all I have to tell you.”

Lampron had become animated and spoke with heat.  There was the slightest flash of anger in his eyes.

I saw M. Charnot get up, approach him, and hold out his hand.

“I did not wish you to say anything else, Monsieur; that is enough for me.  Flamaran asked my daughter’s hand for your friend only this morning.  Flamaran loses no time when charged with a commission.  He, too, told me much that was good of your friend.  I also questioned Counsellor Boule.  But however flattering characters they might give him, I still needed another, that of a man who had lived in complete intimacy with Monsieur Mouillard, and I could find no one but you.”

Lampron stared astonished at this little thin-lipped man who had just changed his tone and manner so unexpectedly.

“Well, Monsieur,” he answered, “you might have got his character from me with less trouble; there was no need to make a scene.”

“Excuse me.  You say I should have got his character; that is exactly what I did not want; characters are always good.  What I wanted was a cry from the heart of a friend outraged and brought to bay.  That is what I got, and it satisfies me.  I am much obliged to you, Monsieur, and beg you will excuse my conduct.”

“But, since we are talking sense at present, allow me to put you a question in my turn.  I am not in the habit of going around the point.  Is my friend’s proposal likely to be accepted or not?”