till next day."

This was certainly terrible; still, after a moment's reflection,
Dionysia said,--

"Never mind! I accept. Tell Blangin, M. Mechinet, that it is all right."

That Dionysia should accept all the conditions of Blangin the jailer
was perfectly natural; but to obtain M. de Chandore's consent was a much
more difficult task. The poor girl understood this so well, that, for
the first time in her life, she felt embarrassed in her grandfather's
presence. She hesitated, she prepared her little speech, and she
selected carefully her words. But in spite of all her skill, in spite of
all the art with which she managed to present her strange request, M. de
Chandore had no sooner understood her project than he exclaimed,--

"Never, never, never!"

Perhaps in his whole life the old gentleman had never expressed himself
in so positive a manner. His brow had never looked so dark. Usually,
when his granddaughter had a petition, his lips might say, "No;" but his
eyes always said, "Yes."

"Impossible!" he repeated, and in a tone of voice which seemed to admit
of no reply.

Surely, in all these painful events, he had not spared himself, and he
had so far done for Dionysia all that she could possibly expect of him.
Her will had been his will. As she had prompted, he had said, "Yes," or
"No." What more could he have said or done?