"Certainly, certainly, mothers always love their children; but Matheline
is not your mother. You are one-eyed, you are lame, and you have sold
your little patrimony to buy your furnaces. Nothing remains of it. Where
is the girl that can wait seven years? Nearly the half of her age!... If
I were in your place, I would not throw away my luck as you are about to
do, but at the hour of Matins I would work for my happiness."
Sylvestre Ker was standing before the fireplace. He listened, his eyes
bent down, with a frown upon his brow.
"You have spoken well," at last he said; "my dear mother will forgive
me. I shall remain, and will work at the hour of Matins."
"You have decided for the best!" cried Bihan. "Rest easy; I will be with
you in case of danger. Open the door of your laboratory. We will work
together; I will cling to you like your shadow!"
Sylvestre Ker did not move, but looked fixedly upon the floor, and then,
as if thinking aloud, murmured,--
"It will be the first time I have ever caused my dear mother sorrow!"
He opened a door, but not that of the laboratory, pushed Pol Bihan
outside, and said,--
"The danger is for myself alone; the gold will be for all. Go to the
Christmas Mass in my place; say to Matheline that she will be rich, and
to my dear mother that she will have a happy old age, since she will
live and die with her fortunate son."