Paul de Kock

On waking the next morning, my first thought was that EugÉnie was under the same roof with me. How changed she was! How pale and sad! Was it remorse, repentance, that had caused that change? Ah! it was very good of me to assume that it was; had she shown any remorse when I wrote to her to inform her that we must part and to ask her for my daughter? Had she shown any when she passed me so haughtily in the Bois de Boulogne? No; and moreover the sin that she had committed is the one for which repentance is least frequently felt; this is not a moral truth, but it is the truth none the less.

No matter, I was determined to go. I did not propose to have a repetition of the previous evening. I did not propose to meet Madame BlÉmont again, and I did propose to return to my daughter. Poor child! With whom had she been left? And Ernest did not write to me! But I forgot that I had not let him know that I had made a prolonged stay in that town, where I expected to remain only a day or two.

I rose and was about to ring for Pettermann, when, happening to glance at my mantel, I saw a note and a memorandum book which were not there the night before.

I walked toward the mantel. That memorandum book was mine; it was the one that I had handed to Ernest when we parted; by what chance did I find it there? I took up the note. Ah! I recognized that writing. It was EugÉnie who had written: “For Monsieur Dalbreuse.” It was she who had sent me that book. The idea of her wanting me to have her portrait! What insolence! Should I not send it all back to her, without reading her note? Yes, I should have done it; but as one does not often do what one should do, I did not resist my curiosity, but I opened the note.

“I have learned, monsieur, that you wished to leave this hotel last night. Let not my presence cause you to leave a place where you seem to be enjoying yourself; I swear to you, monsieur, that you will not meet me again; I shall not leave my room again, and if my strength had allowed, I should have gone away instantly. I have left your daughter with Madame Firmin. She and her husband consented to undertake to act as parents to your children. I think that you will approve of my having left your Henriette with them; however, you will be at liberty to dispose of your daughter as you choose; I give her back to you, I no longer desire to retain anything except my tears and my remorse.”

How weak we are! I was incensed with her when I opened the note, and when I had read it I was deeply moved, completely upset! That letter was still wet with her tears. What a difference between it and the one with which she answered mine two years before! If she had written thus to me then—I did not know what I would have done. She gave me back my daughter, she had left her with Marguerite; how did it happen that she had entrusted her daughter to her? What change had taken place in her in two years? I was utterly at sea; but I was delighted to know that my little Henriette was with my loyal friends.

As for the memorandum book, I could not understand with what purpose she had sent it to me. Did she hope to force me to love her again, did she hope to obtain forgiveness by restoring that portrait to me? Oh, no! I had loved her too dearly to forgive her. Why had Ernest given her that souvenir? I determined to send it back to her.

I took the book in my hands and turned it over and over, as if to make sure that it was really mine; finally I opened it, to see if the painting had faded much in two years.

What did I see? The portrait of EugÉnie was no longer there, but the portrait of my daughter, of my Henriette! Dear child! Yes, it was really she; there was her smile, there were her eyes. It seemed to me as if I had her before me! I kissed my child’s image. “Dear book,” I thought, “you shall never leave me again now; for although a child may tire of seeing her father, a father always takes pleasure in gazing at his child’s features.”—Ah! how grateful I was to EugÉnie for sending me that portrait! If anyone could still plead for her, who could undertake that duty better than her daughter?

I desired to know who had placed those things on my mantel. I rang and Pettermann appeared, still rubbing his eyes.

“Pettermann, you were drunk yesterday?”

“Yes, monsieur, it was my day.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Why, not very long. I had a downright good one yesterday. Prout!”

“I know it, for I saw you and spoke to you.”

“Faith, I didn’t see you or hear you, monsieur.”

“Then you haven’t told anybody in the inn that I intended to go away last night?”

“Go away last night?”

“And it wasn’t you who placed this memorandum book and this note on my mantel this morning?”

“No, monsieur, I haven’t been into your room since yesterday morning.”

“Pettermann, send me the little maid-servant, whose name I believe is Marie,—a stout, short girl.”

“Oh! I know, monsieur, she is the one who brought me my breakfast yesterday.”

The maid appeared. She denied having brought the note and the book; but she confessed that she had said that morning, before the other servants, that I had wanted to go away in the night.

What did it matter by whom EugÉnie had sent me those things? I was no longer angry with her for doing it; but as I did not wish to compel her to keep her room, I would go away. And yet, if I should go at once, she would think that I could not endure to be near her, and I did not want to convey that idea to her, as a reward for the presents she had made me. I did not know what course to pursue.

I had ordered breakfast served in my room, and was about to sit down, when Monsieur Roquencourt appeared.

“Good-morning, Monsieur Dalbreuse.”

“Monsieur, accept my respects. What happy circumstance affords me the honor of this early visit?”

“My dear friend, my niece has sent me to ask you to come to breakfast with us and to drink a cup of tea. She hurried me, she hurried me so! Luckily, I dress very fast. When one has acted in theatricals, one is so accustomed to change one’s costume! By the way, my dear Monsieur Dalbreuse, what is this that my niece tells me? You attempted to go away last night, to leave us without even bidding us good-bye?”

“It is true, monsieur, that——”

“The idea of skipping scenes like that! of running away! I don’t understand that anyone is pursuing you, like Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. Ha! ha! ha! how I have made people laugh playing that devilish Pourceaugnac! It is a terribly hard part; many people have acted it, but the man whom I rank above all others in it is Baptiste Cadet. Ah! such admirable fooling, monsieur! For Pourceaugnac is not stupid, he’s a fool, but a well-bred fool; he shouldn’t be made an idiot with no manners. Baptiste Cadet grasped perfectly all those delicate shades of character, and——”

“But, monsieur, if mademoiselle your niece is waiting for us——”

“Yes, you are right, she is waiting for us. I warn you that she is terribly angry with you. That’s why she wants you to come to breakfast with us. She said that you were a horrid man. Ha! ha!”

I followed Monsieur Roquencourt. So Caroline proposed to scold me because I had intended to go away; had she a right to do it? To my mind, she had not.

Mademoiselle Derbin was sitting down and drinking tea; she honored me with a slight nod; I saw plainly enough that she was angry, but that she did not mean to appear so.

Monsieur Roquencourt took my hand and presented me to his niece with a comical expression on his face.

“‘Bourguignon, here is Lisette; Lisette, here is Bourguignon.’”

“What does all this mean, uncle?” said Caroline testily. “What are you talking about, with your Bourguignons and your Lisettes?”

“What! what does that mean? Do you mean to say that you never saw Les Jeux de l’Amour et du Hasard?”

“Did you bring monsieur here to act? I thought that it was to breakfast with us.—Pray sit down, monsieur; my uncle is unendurable with his theatricals!”

“In other words, you are cross this morning; that’s the real fact.”

“I, cross? Upon my word! why should I be cross? What reason have I for being cross?”

“I tell you that you are. However, I warned Monsieur Dalbreuse; I said to him: ‘My niece is mortally offended with you!’”

“Really, uncle, I don’t know what is the matter with you to-day. Did I tell you to say anything like that? Why should I be offended with monsieur? Because he intended to go away last night without even bidding us adieu? But after all, is not monsieur his own master? We are nothing more than mere acquaintances of his; people with whom he is content to amuse himself when it does not put him out, but of whom he ceases to think as soon as he has left them.”

“Oh! I trust you don’t think that, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, monsieur, I do think it; in fact I am convinced of it; if you had looked upon us in any other light, if you had had ever so little regard for us, you would not have wanted to leave us thus, and we should not be indebted solely to the drunkenness of your servant for the pleasure of seeing you again to-day.”

“Mademoiselle, an unexpected circumstance sometimes forces us to part from those persons who are most attractive to us.”

“Yes, to be sure, when there are other persons whom we are in a hurry to see, and for whom we forget even the simplest rules of courtesy.”

“My dear fellow, I warned you—she is very angry with you.”

“Mon Dieu! how disagreeable you are to-day, uncle!”

Monsieur Roquencourt laughed and drank his tea; I did the same. Caroline said nothing more, and did not turn her eyes in my direction. The uncle bore the whole weight of the conversation.

After a few moments, Caroline said to him:

“Have you heard from Madame BlÉmont this morning, uncle?”

“No, not yet.”

“That lady has a most distinguished air; I like her appearance very much.”

“Yes, she has very beautiful eyes; she reminded me of Mademoiselle Contat in——”

“Uncle, would it not be polite for you to go in person to ask how she passed the night?”

“I! why my dear girl, that lady is all alone; would she care to receive a visit from a man?”

“Oh! you have reached the age, uncle, when visits from you are of no consequence.”

“What do you say, niece? Do you know that I am still quite capable of making conquests? And if I chose——”

“But I am sure that you do not choose, my dear uncle. Go up to that lady’s room, I beg you.”

“I will go, but I will not answer for the consequences.”

When her uncle had left us, Caroline turned to me, and said in a tone which denoted a depth of feeling that I had not supposed her to possess:

“Why were you going away so suddenly and without seeing me? Tell me why, I beg you.”

“Urgent business summoned me to Paris.”

“I do not believe that; you had no letter yesterday. What had I done to you to cause such an abrupt departure? Had I said anything which hurt you? I am sometimes so foolish, so thoughtless——”

“No, mademoiselle, far from it. I am overwhelmed by your kindness, your indulgence.”

“My kindness! my indulgence! anyone would think that you were talking to your tutor! But why were you going, then?”

“I cannot tell you, mademoiselle.”

“Aha! so monsieur has secrets. All right! I prefer to have you tell me that. But my portrait—did you intend to carry that away?”

“No, mademoiselle, I should have had it delivered to you.”

“You would have sent it to me! but it is not finished; there is a great deal still to be done on it.”

At that moment the uncle returned and said:

“The lady is not visible yet. I expected as much. But she is greatly touched by our thoughtfulness and feels a little better this morning.”

“I am glad of that. I will go to see her.—By the way, uncle, when do we return to Paris?”

“When! upon my soul! that is a sensible question! I do exactly as she wishes, and she pretends to wait upon my desires. Ha! ha! that’s a good joke!”

“Well, it seems to me that we might pass another week here. And if Monsieur Dalbreuse’s business were not so urgent, we would invite him to accept a seat in our carriage, and take him to Paris with us.—Well, monsieur, will you tell us what you think of my uncle’s proposition?”

“Yes, my dear fellow; for although my niece always arranges everything to suit her own whim, I must needs pretend to have done it. However, be sure that I shall be most delighted to have you for a travelling companion.”

I did not know what to say, what to decide upon; it seemed to me that I ought to go, and yet it would be most agreeable to me to remain. A week soon passes. I should not come into contact with Madame BlÉmont, since she would remain in her room, and she herself had entreated me not to go away.

While I made these reflections, Caroline came to my side. At last she tapped me lightly on the shoulder.

“Whenever you are ready, monsieur,—we are waiting for your reply.”

“Oh, excuse me, mademoiselle; I was thinking——”

“Will you return to Paris with us?”

“I am afraid of incommoding you. I have someone with me.”

“Your German? There is a seat behind the carriage.”

“Very well, I accept, mademoiselle.”

“Ah! that is very kind of you!”

Once more Mademoiselle Derbin was in a charming humor. She arranged a drive for the day, intending to visit some points of view in the neighborhood of which someone had told her. We must be ready in an hour; she left us to attend to her toilette; we were to have no sitting for the portrait that day.

Caroline was a spoiled child; that was evident from her wilful manner, from her fits of impatience when her whims were not gratified; but she was so attractive, so fascinating when she chose to be agreeable, that it was really difficult to resist her. I believed that she had an affectionate, susceptible heart, a little inclined to enthusiasm perhaps. The interest that she manifested in me troubled me sometimes; I dreaded lest she should be in love with me. I dreaded it, because that love could not make her happy; but in the depths of my heart I should have been flattered, yes, enchanted; for our self-esteem is always more readily listened to than our reason.

To divert my mind from such ideas, I gazed at my daughter’s portrait, I asked her pardon for not returning to her at once; but I knew that she was with Ernest and his wife, and I was certain that she was well and that they often talked to her about me.

The hour for our drive arrived and I joined Mademoiselle Derbin and her uncle. Caroline wore a lovely costume; her great dark eyes shone with a deeper light than usual; they expressed pleasure and satisfaction.

“Do you think that I look well in this dress, monsieur?” she asked.

“I think that you always look well, mademoiselle.”

“Is that true? Do you mean what you say?”

“To be sure I do. Besides, I am only the echo of the whole world.”

“I do not like to have you an echo; I don’t ask you what other people say; that is entirely indifferent to me.”

We were just about starting when Caroline exclaimed:

“By the way, suppose I should invite Madame BlÉmont to go with us?”

“You know very well that she is ill, mademoiselle; she will refuse.”

“A drive cannot fail to do her good. I am going to ask her.”

“You are taking useless trouble, mademoiselle.”

“We will see about that, monsieur.”

She paid no heed to me and left us. But I was not alarmed; EugÉnie certainly would not accept.

Monsieur Roquencourt came up to me and, pointing to his waistcoat, which was made of white silk, with colored flowers, and cut after the style of Louis XV, said to me:

“What do you think of this waistcoat?”

“It is very original.”

“I wore it in the part of Monsieur de Crac.”

“I can well imagine that it must be very effective on the stage.”

“All the ladies raved over it; but I played Monsieur de Crac very nicely too. In the first place, I talk Gascon as well as if I were a native of Toulouse, and Dugazon gave me a few lessons for that part. My first lines were admirable:

Monsieur Roquencourt might have recited the whole play if he pleased, for I was not listening to him; I was awaiting Mademoiselle Derbin’s return most impatiently. At last she appeared, and, as I hoped, alone; there was an expression of something more than annoyance on her face.

“Let us go, messieurs,” she said; “Monsieur Dalbreuse predicted that my trouble would be thrown away; Madame BlÉmont refuses to come with us.”

We entered the carriage and began our drive. I was most anxious to know what those ladies had said to each other, but I dared not question Caroline. She saved me the trouble, for she said, gazing earnestly at me:

“Monsieur Dalbreuse, do you know Madame BlÉmont?”

“I, know that lady? Why,—no, mademoiselle.”

“You act as if you weren’t quite sure.”

“I beg your pardon, but why did you ask me that question?”

“Because she did nothing but talk about you all the time I was with her; asking me if I had known you long, if we had ever met anywhere before. That struck me as rather strange. When I told her that we intended to return to Paris together, she made a wry face. Ha! ha! it is very amusing.—And you say that you never met her in Paris?”

“No, mademoiselle.”

“Then you apparently made a conquest of her last night; isn’t that so, uncle?”

“My dear girl, what would there be so extraordinary in that? I myself made ten conquests in the part of Figaro. To be sure, my cherry and white costume was very elegant.”

“It seems that Monsieur Dalbreuse does not need to be dressed as Figaro in order to fascinate the ladies. I confess that this particular one does not attract me so much as she did. I looked closely at her this morning. Great heaven! such thinness! such pallor! She certainly can never have been very pretty.”

I was on the point of contradicting her, but I restrained myself and said nothing.

After a drive of several hours, we returned to the hotel. We noticed much commotion among the people of the house, and a servant informed us that new guests had arrived: two English lords and their ladies, and a gentleman from Paris, who alone made as much fuss as four people.

Caroline went at once to change her dress, in order to outshine the Englishwomen, and perhaps also to turn the heads of the Englishmen and the Parisian.

I returned to my room and reflected upon what Mademoiselle Derbin had told me of her conversation with Madame BlÉmont. What did my intimacy with Caroline or with any woman matter to EugÉnie? Was I not at liberty to dispose of my heart as I chose? But women have so much self-esteem that even when they no longer love you they are vexed to see that you follow their example. Men are much the same too.

I went without apprehension to the evening reception, being fully persuaded that Madame BlÉmont would not be tempted to appear.

There were many people in the salon. The English party was already there; the two young women were young and pretty and their travelling companions—I did not know whether they were their husbands—paid no attention to them, but were already deep in politics with the Spaniard and some Frenchmen. Several young men were already playing the gallant with the young women. I joined Mademoiselle Derbin, who was almost deserted for the new arrivals, although they were not to be compared with her.

I sat down beside her; I was pleased to see that she was not annoyed at the desertion of her little court.

“So you don’t do like the rest?” she said with a smile; “you don’t go to offer incense to the strangers?”

“I have no inclination to do so; why should one change when one is well off?”

“That often happens, however.”

“Alas, yes! but apparently it may be that one is well off and does not realize it.”

“I trust that I shall never have the experience.”

I do not know how it happened that at that moment Caroline’s hand was under mine. She did not take it away, and we sat thus for a long while, paying no heed to what was taking place in the salon. But the touch of that hand reminded me of EugÉnie and of the time when I was paying court to her. Doubtless Caroline had no suspicion that the pressure of her hand made me think of another woman, and that it was that which made me pensive. But we very often deceive ourselves with respect to the sensations which we arouse. And the thing which flatters our self-esteem would sometimes cause us naught but vexation if we knew its real cause.

Suddenly the door of the salon was noisily opened and someone entered, talking very loud and making a great uproar. I turned, for whenever anyone entered the salon, I felt a thrill of uneasiness.

“This is the gentleman from Paris, no doubt,” said Caroline.

I looked at the newcomer, who was just saluting the company; it was BÉlan!

He had already turned in our direction; he bowed to Mademoiselle Derbin, and, in spite of the signals that I made to him, exclaimed when he saw me:

“I am not mistaken! it is BlÉmont! dear BlÉmont, whom I have not seen for two years! Ah! my dear friend, embrace me!”

He opened his arms; it seemed to me that I could choke him with great good will. All eyes were turned upon us. I could not conceal my embarrassment, my irritation. BÉlan seized me and embraced me in spite of myself, still exclaiming:

“Dear BlÉmont! how pleasant it is to meet a friend when travelling, isn’t it?”

“Hum! may the devil take——”

“What’s that? He has not yet got over his surprise.”

Caroline, her attention attracted by the name of BlÉmont, gazed steadfastly at me and said to BÉlan:

“Why, are you not mistaken, monsieur? It is Monsieur Dalbreuse whom you are speaking to. Am I not right, monsieur? Pray answer!”

I did not know what to say. BÉlan rejoined:

“So his name is Dalbreuse now? Faith, my dear fellow, I never knew you by that name, but I understand—ah! the rascal!—it was when he left his wife that he changed his name, in order to play the bachelor.”

“His wife!” cried Caroline.

“His wife!” several others repeated.

“Monsieur,” I said, with great difficulty restraining my anger, “who requested you to go into details which concern nobody but me?”

“Mon Dieu! I had no idea that it was a secret, my dear BlÉmont; and then, I have just met your wife in the garden; and now I find you here; so I suppose that it’s all settled, that you have come together again, and——”

“That is enough, monsieur.”

“Your wife in the garden! what! is she your wife?” said Caroline, under her breath.

I lowered my eyes. At that moment I wished that the earth would open and conceal me from every eye; I heard people saying on all sides:

“He is the sick woman’s husband!”

BÉlan, observing my embarrassment and the effect his words had produced in the salon, gazed at me with a stupid expression, muttering:

“If you are angry, I am very sorry; but I could not guess! you ought to have warned me. Of course you know what has happened to me? Parbleu! there is no mystery about that; my case was reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux a few days ago. I am—oh! it is all over; I am—I don’t care to say the word before these ladies. But see how unlucky I am! the court has decided that there were no proofs; it condemns me to continue to live with my wife, and insists that I am not a cuckold.—Bless my soul! the word slipped out after all!”

“Cuckold!” repeated several young men with a laugh. “Can it be that monsieur is the Monsieur Ferdinand BÉlan of whom the Gazette des Tribunaux had something to say recently?”

“I am the man, messieurs: Julien-Ferdinand BÉlan, who sought a divorce from Armide-Constance-FidÈle de Beausire. They have condemned me to keep my wife, but I shall appeal. I am certain that I am a cuckold; my judges were bribed.”

They surrounded BÉlan, they examined him, exchanging smiles, and questioning him. The result was that attention was diverted from me. I took advantage of that fact, and without raising my eyes, without noticing Caroline’s condition, I hurried from the salon.

I went up to my room, I sent for Pettermann, and ordered him to make everything ready for our departure. I determined to go away at the earliest possible moment. Ah! how I regretted that I had not followed my plan of the day before! If I had gone then, I should have avoided that scene, and no one would know—But I should never see all those people again. And Caroline—and her uncle—in what aspect should I appear to their eyes? As a villain, a schemer perhaps! people always form a bad opinion of a man who conceals his name. That infernal BÉlan! what fatal chance led him where I was?

I went downstairs to pay my bill. I determined to return to Paris by post, and not to stop en route, for fear of other encounters. The landlady was very sorry, she said, at my sudden departure; but I paid her and ordered my horses.

While I was waiting for the post-chaise to be made ready, and the horses to arrive, I paced the courtyard of the hotel in great agitation. I did not wish to go into the garden, for fear of meeting Madame BlÉmont, who, BÉlan said, was there alone; I did not wish to return to the house either, for I feared to meet someone from the salon. So I sat down on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard. It was dark and I could not be seen from the house. I abandoned myself to my thoughts; there were some persons there whom I regretted to leave, but I tried to console myself by thinking that I was going back to my daughter, and that I should soon see her.

Someone passed me; it was a woman. She stopped, then walked toward me. Had she seen me? Yes, she came to where I was and sat down beside me. It was Caroline! I could not see her features; but from her tremulousness of voice and her hurried breathing, I divined her agitation.

“I was looking for you, monsieur; I wanted to speak with you.”

“And I myself, mademoiselle, was distressed that I was unable to bid you adieu. But I am waiting for the post horses; I am going away.”

“Going away? I suspected as much. You are right, monsieur; indeed, you should have gone away before. I am very sorry that I detained you this morning. Ah! I can understand now why you wished to shun Madame BlÉmont’s presence! So it is true, monsieur, that you are her husband?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“You are married, and you concealed it from me, and you—oh! your behavior has been shocking! I hate you, I detest you, as much as I esteemed and liked you before. You are married! Why didn’t you tell me so, monsieur?”

“As I had ceased to live with my wife, it seemed to me, mademoiselle, that I was at liberty to——”

“At liberty, yes, of course you were at liberty. What do you care for the distress, the torture you may cause others? Perhaps you laugh at it in secret. I see that there was no mistake in what people said of you. And yet the portrait was not flattering. However, you must have heard it yourself yesterday. Was it the truth, monsieur?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“So you abandoned your wife without cause, without lawful reason?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And you saw her condition, her suffering—and it did not touch you? you did not throw yourself at her feet and ask her pardon for your wrongdoing?—Oh! you are a monster!”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and wept and sobbed. I could do nothing but sigh and hold my peace. At last she continued:

“You must go back to your wife, monsieur; it is your duty. Won’t you do it? Remember what an effect the sight of you had upon her! Poor woman! how far I was from suspecting! And that does not make you repent of your conduct? Mon Dieu! your heart is pitiless! Ah! I had not formed that opinion of you.—But, Monsieur Dalbreuse—that name alone comes to my mind—promise me, swear to me that you will go back to your wife.”

“No, mademoiselle, I cannot make you a promise which I have no intention of keeping. We are parted forever.”

“Forever! In that case, monsieur, I must bid you adieu, and forever also; it would not be proper for me to see again a man who has represented himself to be what he is not. You had not enough confidence in me to tell me.—But, after all, what could he have told me? That he had abandoned his wife and children. Oh, no! such a confidence would have aroused my indignation; it was much better to be agreeable, to try to please me, to conceal the fact that he was bound for life; for that is the way you behaved toward me. And yet, monsieur, if I had loved you, if I had allowed myself to be seduced by these deceitful appearances, would you have made me unhappy too?—Well! why don’t you answer me, monsieur?”

“I believe, mademoiselle, that I have never said a word to you which could lead you to believe that——”

“No, that is true, you have said nothing to me. I am a coquette, a foolish girl. Oh, no! you have never tried to please me.—But you have my portrait, and it seems to me that it is useless, to say the least, for you to keep it: for I trust that we shall never see each other again, monsieur.”

“Here it is, mademoiselle; I intended to send it to you from the first post-office.”

Caroline took, or rather, snatched the portrait from my hands; at that moment a servant called me and Pettermann shouted that the horses were ready.

I rose: Caroline did the same; but at the first step that I took she seized my arm and said to me in an imploring tone:

“Monsieur, I cannot believe that your heart is deaf to the names of husband and father. Perhaps your departure will cause the death of her who came here, I doubt not, in the hope of being reunited to you. Oh! do not disappoint her hope. Give her back a husband, give your children a father. Will all the pleasures of which you are going in search equal those which await you with the wife who adores you? For she does adore you, I am sure, and she will forgive you. Just think that she is here, in yonder garden. She hears you, perhaps. Look, see that white shadow which I can make out near the garden gate.”

In truth, despite the darkness, I fancied that I saw a woman. I instantly disengaged my arm and hurried away from Caroline; I ran across the courtyard and jumped into the carriage which was awaiting me; Pettermann followed me and we drove away.