I'll dispose of the brat. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. I've engaged to watch over you as a son, and I will do so as far as I'm able; but if you neglect my advice, what chance have I of benefitting you? On one point I've made up my mind—you shall either obey me, or leave me. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone.
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