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“We will go with you.”

“No, gentlemen, let me see my son alone. I can meet you at Maspero’s in two hours. Adieu, my dear friends.”

He was resolved.

“Au, revoir,,” said the dear friends.

Shortly after, cane in hand, General Villivicencio moved with an ireful stride up the banquette of Rue Royale. Just as he passed the red-brick front one of the batten shutters opened the faintest bit, and a certain pair of lovely eyes looked after him, without any of that round simplicity which we have before discovered in them. As he half turned to knock at his son’s door he glanced at this very shutter, but it was as tightly closed as though the house were an enchanted palace.

Dr. Mossy’s door, on the contrary, swung ajar when he knocked, and the General entered.

“Well, my son, have you seen that newspaper? No, I think not. I see you have not, since your cheeks are not red with shame and anger.”

Dr. Mossy looked up with astonishment from the desk where he sat writing.

“What is that, papa?”

“My faith! Mossy, is it possible you have not heard of the attack upon me, which has surprised and exasperated the city this morning?”

“No,” said Dr. Mossy, with still greater surprise, and laying his hand on the arm of his chair.

His father put on a dying look. “My soul!” At that moment his glance fell upon the paper which had been sent in by Madame Delicieuse. “But, Mossy, my son,” he screamed, “there it is!” striking it rapidly with one finger–“there! there! there! read it! It calls me ‘not responsible!’ ‘not responsible’ it calls me! Read! read!”

“But, papa,” said the quiet little Doctor, rising, and accepting the crumpled paper thrust at him, “I have read this. If this is it, well, then, already I am preparing to respond to it.”

The General seized him violently, and, spreading a suffocating kiss on his face, sealed it with an affectionate oath.

“Ah, Mossy, my boy, you are glorious! You had begun already to write! You are glorious! Read to me what you have written, my son.”

The Doctor took up a bit of manuscript, and resuming his chair, began:

“MESSRS. EDITORS: On your journal of this morning”–

“Eh! how! you have not written it in English, is it, son?”

“But, yes, papa.”

“‘Tis a vile tongue,” said the General; “but, if it is necessary–proceed.”

“MESSRS. EDITORS: On your journal of this morning is published an editorial article upon the Villivicencio ticket, which is plentiful and abundant with mistakes. Who is the author or writer of the above said editorial article your correspondent does at present ignore, but doubts not he is one who, hasty to form an opinion, will yet, however, make his assent to the correction of some errors and mistakes which”–

“Bah!” cried the General.

Dr. Mossy looked up, blushing crimson.

“Bah!” cried the General, still more forcibly. “Betise!”

“How?” asked the gentle son.

“‘Tis all nonsent!” cried the General, bursting into English. “Hall you ‘ave to say is: ”Sieur Editeurs! I want you s’all give de nem of de indignan’ scoundrel who meek some lies on you’ paper about mon Pere et ses amis!”

“Ah-h!” said Dr. Mossy, in a tone of derision and anger.

His father gazed at him in mute astonishment. He stood beside his disorderly little desk, his small form drawn up, a hand thrust into his breast, and that look of invincibility in his eyes such as blue eyes sometimes surprise us with.

“You want me to fight,” he said.

“My faith!” gasped the General, loosening in all his joints. “I believe–you may cut me in pieces if I do not believe you were going to reason it out in the newspaper! Fight? If I want you to fight? Upon my soul, I believe you do not want to fight!”

“No,” said Mossy.

“My God!” whispered the General. His heart seemed to break.

“Yes,” said the steadily gazing Doctor, his lips trembling as he opened them. “Yes, your God. I am afraid”–

“Afraid!” gasped the General.