We made the journey without stopping. The farther I left EugÉnie behind, the more relieved I felt. I could not understand how I had ever consented to remain where she was. Mademoiselle Derbin must have had great influence over me to make me forget all my resolutions. Should I ever have reached the point of standing in Madame BlÉmont’s presence without emotion? Oh, no! that could never be. When she defied me, I was angry; but now that she seemed to be suffering, I was more embarrassed than ever before her.

We arrived in Paris. When we left the chaise, poor Pettermann could not walk, his trousers were stuck to him; despite all his efforts to conceal his suffering, he made wry faces, which would have amused me if I had not been in such haste to reach Ernest’s house. I hired a cab and assisted my companion to enter it; he sat opposite me, exclaiming:

“Prout! this is what one might call travelling fast: two relays more and my rump would have been cooked.”

I was going to see my daughter again, to embrace her at my ease. How slow that driver was! how lazily his horses went! At last we arrived in front of Firmin’s house; I jumped from the cab before Pettermann had succeeded in moving.

Another disappointment: Firmin and his wife were at Saint-MandÉ, where they had bought a little house; they passed the whole summer there. So I must go to Saint-MandÉ. I procured their address, I returned to the cab, and we started again, to the utter despair of Pettermann, who had risen and could not sit down again.

Luckily, Saint-MandÉ is not far from Paris. When we reached the village, I alighted, for I could go more rapidly on foot; I hurried forward and soon spied the house that had been described to me: two floors, gray blinds, an iron gate, and a garden behind; that was the place. I rang, or rather jerked, the bell. A servant came to the door.

“Monsieur Firmin?”

“This is where he lives, monsieur.”

I asked no more questions, but hastened up the first flight of stairs that I saw; I paid no attention to the maid, who called after me: “Monsieur is at work and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”—I was sure that Ernest would forgive me if I interrupted him in the middle of a scene or of a couplet.

I reached the first floor and passed through several rooms; at last I found my author. He opened his mouth to complain of being disturbed; but on recognizing me, he threw down his pen, and rushed to embrace me.

“So you have come back at last, my dear Henri! We have been expecting you every day.”

“Yes, here I am, my friend, and in a terrible hurry to see my daughter.”

“She is here. Your—your wi—Madame BlÉmont placed her in our charge.”

“I know it.”

“You know it? And I hoped to surprise you! Who told you?”

“EugÉnie herself.”

“You have seen her?”

“At Mont-d’Or. I will tell you all about it. But pray tell me where Henriette is.”

“All the children are in the garden with my wife.”

“Come, show me the way. But I beg you, say nothing to her; I want to see if she will recognize me; a child forgets so quickly at her age!”

“My friend, it isn’t the children alone who forget quickly. I am sure your daughter will recognize you.”

We went down into the garden; my heart beat fast with pleasure. At the end of a path I saw Madame Firmin seated on a grassy bank; a little beyond was a patch of turf, on which four children were playing. My eyes sought my daughter only, and I recognized her at once. She had grown, but she had changed very little.

The children were engrossed by their play, and they did not hear us coming. Marguerite caught sight of us, and on recognizing me she started to meet us. I motioned to her to stay where she was and to say nothing. I walked softly to the patch of turf; I crept behind Madame Ernest, to where a lilac bush concealed me from the children. Then I called Henriette aloud.

She raised her head and looked about her in amazement, saying:

“Who called me? It wasn’t you, was it, my dear friend?”

“No,” said Marguerite, “but perhaps it was my husband, for here he is now.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t his voice. It is funny, but it was a voice that I know.”

I called again without showing myself. Henriette seemed startled; her face flushed and she trembled; she looked about in all directions, crying:

“Why, I should think that it was papa’s voice!”

I could hold out no longer; I stepped from behind the bush; Henriette saw me, uttered a shriek, and rushed into my arms, saying again and again:

“Oh! it is my papa! it is my papa!”

“Dear love! how happy it makes me to hold you in my arms again! how could I have delayed my return so long!”

I sat down beside Madame Ernest and took my daughter on my knee.

“So you recognized me, did you?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes, papa; I recognized your voice too.”

“Have you thought of me sometimes?”

“Yes, papa, and I said that you were an awful long time away.”

“My dear love, after this, I won’t leave you any more.”

Ernest’s two children had left their play and had drawn near to look at me. A little boy, about three years old, alone had remained on the grass; he looked at us with a timid air. Suddenly my daughter left my knee and ran to the little boy, took his hand, and led him to me, saying:

“Come, EugÈne, and kiss papa.”

I had guessed that it was he. I examined him closely: he had pretty chestnut hair, lovely eyes, a pink and white complexion, and a gentle expression; he looked very much like EugÉnie; that was all that I could discover in his features.

Doubtless my face had grown stern, for the child seemed to be afraid to come forward. I could not help smiling, however, when he said to me with a comical gravity:

“Good-morning, papa.”

I kissed him on the cheek, but sighed as I did so, with a heavy weight at my heart. Then I put him down and he returned at once to the grass. It seemed that the poor little fellow noticed that I had kissed him against my will.

I took my daughter on my knee again; she jumped about and clapped her hands for joy, saying:

“Now, when mamma comes back, I shall be happy; she will come soon, won’t she, papa? Why didn’t you bring her back? She told me that she was going to get you.”

I turned my eyes away and made no reply. Ernest said to me in an undertone:

“My friend, you forbade us to mention your wife to you; but you must expect now that Henriette will mention her very often. You certainly would not want your daughter to cease to think of her mother?”

“No, of course not; besides, I am more reasonable now than I used to be. I am now curious to learn—Henriette, go and play with your little friends.”

My daughter went back to her brother and Ernest’s children. I sat between Marguerite and Ernest and said to them:

“Tell me what has occurred since I went away, and how it happened that my daughter was placed in your charge.”

“Yes, we will tell you all about it,” said Marguerite. “But first—I say, Ernest, have you told him?”

Ernest smiled but said nothing.

“What is it?” I inquired.

“We are married!” cried Marguerite, jumping up and down on the bench. “It is all settled—three months ago. Ah! I am not afraid of his leaving me now; I am his wife.”

She ran to Ernest, took his head in her hands, and kissed him; he extricated himself, saying:

“Stop! you are rumpling my shirt.”

“You see, Monsieur Henri, he is less agreeable already!—Oh! I only said that in fun.”

“My dear friends, you have done well to be married, since that was your wish. I do not think that you will be any happier than you were, but I hope that you will be as happy. You have pledges of happiness.”

I kissed Marguerite and shook hands with Ernest, who said:

“That is enough about ourselves, now let us come to your matters.—When you had gone, I determined to ascertain how Madame BlÉmont was behaving. But she appeared in society very little; and yet—for you know how just the world is—people pitied her, praised her highly, and blamed you for deserting her. One night she came to a large party where I was. Her costume was as elaborate as ever; but I thought that she had lost color, that she had greatly changed. I fancied that her gayety was forced, and I noticed that she relapsed constantly into a gloomy reverie, from which she emerged with difficulty. You know what sentiments Madame BlÉmont aroused in my breast. I was the only person in the world who looked at her with a more than severe expression, and I am convinced that she felt that I was the only one to whom you had confided your misfortunes; so that my presence always produced a magical effect upon her; she ceased to talk, and it seemed to me that in my presence she dared not even pretend to be light-hearted.

“BÉlan came to that same party with his wife and his mother-in-law. I do not know whether it was from malice or from stupidity, but on seeing me, he said to me:

“‘Well! so poor BlÉmont was nearly killed! He was knocked down in the Bois de Boulogne by some people riding. I heard about it from a young man who helped to pick him up.’

“Your wife happened to be standing behind us. I glanced at her and found that her eyes were fastened upon mine with an expression which I could not interpret. They seemed to implore me to listen to her. At once I turned my back and left the party. The next morning, at seven o’clock, your wife was at my house.”

“At your house?”

“Imagine my surprise when she entered my study, trembling and hardly able to stand.—‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I am convinced that you know of all my wrongdoing toward Monsieur BlÉmont; I have read in your eyes the contempt which you feel for me, and it has required much courage for me to venture to call upon you; but what I heard last night has made it impossible for me to enjoy a moment’s rest. Monsieur BlÉmont was hurt in the Bois de Boulogne by some people on horseback. I remember very well that I passed him; can it be that I was unconsciously the cause of that accident? Have I that crime also to reproach myself with? Can it be that Monsieur BlÉmont has not recovered? For heaven’s sake, take pity on my anxiety and conceal nothing from me.’

“I told your wife how the accident happened. She could not doubt that she was the original cause of it. She listened to me without a word; she seemed utterly crushed. I felt bound to take advantage of that opportunity to tell her of the repulsion that you felt for your son, of your intention not to see him; and I concluded by handing her the memorandum book which you had left with me and which contained her portrait. When she saw it, a cry of despair escaped her, and she fell unconscious to the floor. Marguerite came and I placed her in her care. She will finish the story now.”

“Mon Dieu! I have little to add,” said Marguerite. “I found the poor woman unconscious; I did what I could for her, but when she came to herself she was in the most horrible state of despair. She desired to die, she tried to end her own life. She called upon you and her children, and gave herself the most odious names. Ah! I am sure that if you had seen her then, you would have had pity on her; for my own part, as I saw that she had an attack of fever, and that her mind wandered at times, I would not let her go home alone, but I went with her; then I sent and asked my husband’s permission to stay with her until she was better, and he consented.”

“Oh! what a kind heart you have, madame! you forgot the way that she treated you.”

“Oh! I forgot that long ago, I promise you. In this world we must forget much, I think, and forgive often. Madame BlÉmont, in her lucid intervals, looked at me and pressed my hand without speaking. When she was really better, she thanked me for taking care of her, as if what I had done was not the most natural thing in the world; she asked me to forgive her for the evil opinion she had had of me. Oh! I forgave her with all my heart. She confessed that I had always made her very jealous, and I scolded her for suspecting you; I told her that you used to come to my little room solely to talk to us about her, and she wept as she listened to me. But she wept much harder when she told me about her wrongdoing; and I too shed tears while she was telling her story, for I saw that she had always loved you, and that, except for her insane jealousy, her anger, and the bad advice she received——”

“Well, madame?”

“Well, she told me that she regretted having refused you your daughter, and, notwithstanding the grief it would cause her to part with her, she had decided to comply with your slightest wish. She begged me to take charge of little Henriette until she returned. You can imagine that I consented. She also recommended your son to me—yes, your son, and she repeated the words several times. She told me that she was going to live in retirement, and to turn her back on society forever.”

“And in fact,” said Ernest, “she did abandon altogether the sort of life she had been leading formerly; she lived in the most complete solitude. But I learned a few days ago that she had gone to Mont-d’Or to take the waters, because her physician had prescribed that journey, her health being much impaired.—That is what has happened, my dear Henri. In telling you this story, we have not tried to move you by dwelling upon your wife’s repentance, although we believe it to be sincere. We know that her fault is not one a husband can forget, especially when he loved his wife as you did yours; but, even without forgetting, one sometimes forgives; and there are many guiltier women in the world. We cannot help pitying Madame BlÉmont, and sighing over the future of your children.”

“My dear friends,” I said, taking a hand of each, “when I went away two years ago, your only wish was that I should forget a guilty wife; you had witnessed my despair, the tortures of my heart, and then you were perhaps more angry than I with the author of all my woes. To-day, the sight of EugÉnie in tears, of her remorse, which I am quite willing to believe is sincere, has moved you, has touched you to the heart. You would like to induce me to forgive her; but do not hope for it. Although two years of absence have partly cicatrized the wounds in my heart, do not believe that it can ever forget the blow which was dealt it. Even if I should forgive her who destroyed my happiness, that happiness would not be revived, her presence would always be painful to me, I could never hold her in my arms without remembering that another also had enjoyed her caresses; such an existence would be a constant torment; I will not condemn myself to it. I cannot give my daughter a mother at that price; I think that I have done enough by maintaining her honor. Let us never return to this subject. As for little EugÈne, I will do my duty. If I have not a father’s heart for him, it is because I must have some enlightenment to banish from my heart the suspicions which have found their way thither. Ah! I am greatly to be pitied for not daring to love the child whom I called my son.”

Ernest and Marguerite looked at each other sadly, but could find nothing to reply. I rose, thinking of Pettermann, whom I had left in the cab.

“Your house strikes me as a charming place; can you give me a room here?” I asked Ernest.

“It is all ready, and it has been waiting for you a fortnight.”

“Very good; but I don’t need Pettermann here; have I my apartment in Paris still?”

“Yes, I would not give it up on the last rent day, because I expected you.”

“In that case Pettermann can go there; and I, as you consent, will board with you; I shall go to Paris as little as possible.”

Pettermann was still sitting in the cab which was waiting in front of the house. I told him that he was to return to my apartment in Paris, to take up his quarters there, and to be always ready to bring what I needed to Saint-MandÉ. Pettermann bowed, and drove away, saying:

“I am very glad that I didn’t have to get out of the carriage.”

Ernest and Marguerite showed me to the room which they had set apart for me. It looked on the garden, and I found it very much to my liking, especially when they pointed out to me, opposite my room, the room in which Henriette and her brother slept; I was very glad to be able to kiss my daughter as soon as I woke, and without disturbing anyone.

It only remained to show me the property. That was a joy for a landed proprietor, and Ernest and his wife were enchanted to do it. The house was not large, but it was pleasant and convenient. Moreover, Ernest was a genuine poet; he had no ambition; he would have been bored to death in a palace, and he agreed with Socrates. As for Marguerite, she fancied herself in a chÂteau, and she was never tired of saying, “our property.” But she would add at once: “When I used to live in my little room under the eaves, I hardly expected that I should have a house of my own some day.”

“A person is worthy of having a house of her own, madame, when it does not make her forget that she once lived under the eaves,” I would rejoin.

Only the garden remained to be inspected. It was quite large, and at the farther end there was an iron gate leading into Vincennes forest. At the end of the wall I saw a small summer house with two windows, one of which looked into the forest; they were both secured by shutters.

“What do you do with this summer-house?” I asked Ernest.

“I expect—I intend it for a study.”

“True, it will be a quiet place for you to work in.”

“But it isn’t arranged for that yet,” said Marguerite; “and as we have spent a great deal of money on our estate already, we shall wait a while before furnishing the summer-house; shan’t we, husband?”

“Yes, wife.”

Ernest smiled as he said that, and so did I, for Madame Ernest emphasized the word husband, which she uttered every instant, as if to make up for the time when she dared not say it.

I took my daughter by the hand to walk about the garden. Henriette was seven years old; she was not very large, but her wit and good sense amazed me. All the evening I kept her talking; her answers delighted me, for they denoted no less sense than goodness of heart. I could not tire of looking at her and of listening to her. More than once I had been terribly bored in a fashionable assemblage, but I was very sure that I should never be bored with my daughter.

The days passed quickly at Ernest’s house. Painting, reading, walks with my daughter, occupied the time. In the evening we talked; a few friends and neighbors dropped in, but informally and without dressing; the men in their jackets or blouses, the women in their aprons. That is the proper way to live in the country. Those who carry to the fields the fashion and the etiquette of the city will never know the true pleasures of country life.

I had been a fortnight at Saint-MandÉ, and I had not once been tempted to go to Paris. Pettermann brought me all that I desired and did my errands with exactness. I always asked him if anybody had called, although I never expected visitors. In society no one knew that I had returned from my travels. Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece did not know my address in Paris, and even if they had known it, I could not expect a visit from them. Doubtless Caroline had ceased to think of me. She did well. For my part, I confess that I very often thought of her, and sometimes I regretted that I had given her her portrait. But a smile or a word from my daughter banished such ideas.

There was another person of whom I often thought, although Ernest and his wife never mentioned her. I continually saw her, changed and pale as I had seen her at Mont-d’Or; and at night, in the woods or in the garden, I fancied that I still saw sometimes that white spectre, the sight of which had caused me to fly so hurriedly from the hotel at which I was living.

How could I forget EugÉnie? Did not my daughter talk to me every day about her mother? Did she not constantly ask me if she would come home soon? I tried in vain to avoid that subject, Henriette recurred to it again and again; I dared not tell her that she made me unhappy by speaking to me of her mother; but could I hope ever to enjoy perfect happiness? Was there not always someone whose presence would prevent me from forgetting the past?

Poor child! it was not his fault that his mother was guilty. That was what I said to myself every day as I looked at him; but in spite of that, I could not conquer my feelings and conceal the depression which his presence caused me. I did not hate him, and I felt that I should love him if I dared think that he was my son; but those cruel suspicions hurt me more than the certainty of the worst, for then I could have made up my mind with respect to EugÈne, whereas now I did not know what course to pursue.

The poor boy had never seen a smile on my face for him; so that he always held aloof from me, and never came near me except when his sister brought him. Sometimes, as I walked in the garden, I saw EugÈne in the distance playing with Ernest’s children. Then I would stop, and, standing behind a hedge, would watch him for a long while. I passed hours in that way. He did not see me and abandoned himself without restraint to the natural gayety of his age, which my presence seemed always to hold in check. He feared me, no doubt, and he would never love me. Often that thought distressed me; at such times I was seized with a wild longing to run to him and to embrace him, to overwhelm him with caresses, for I said to myself: “Suppose he were my son?” but soon the painful thought would return, my heart would turn to ice, and I would hurry away from the child’s neighborhood.

My daughter noticed that I did not caress her brother as I did her; for a child of seven makes her own little observations, and children notice more than we think. Henriette, who considered herself a woman beside her brother, because she was four years older than he, seemed to have taken little EugÈne under her protection; she told him what games to play, scolded him, or rewarded him; in short, she played the little mamma with him. But when I called Henriette, I did not call EugÈne; when I took her on my knee, I did not take her brother. Having observed all this, she said to me one morning as I had my arms about her:

“Tell me, papa, don’t you love my brother? You never kiss him, you never speak to him; but he is a nice little fellow. He loves you too, my brother does; so why don’t you take him in your arms?”

“My dear love, because we don’t treat a boy as we do a girl.”

“Ah! don’t people kiss little boys?”

“Very seldom.”

“But, papa, Monsieur Ernest kisses his little boy as often as he does his daughter.”

I did not know what to reply; children often embarrass us when we try to conceal things from them. Mademoiselle Henriette, seeing that I did not know what to say to her, exclaimed:

“Oh! if you didn’t love my brother, that would be very naughty!”

To avoid my daughter’s remarks and questions, I determined to kiss her less frequently during the day. However, as I desired to make up to myself for my abstinence, I always went into the children’s chamber when I rose. They were still asleep when I went in. EugÈne’s cradle was by a window, and Henriette’s little bed at the other end of the room, surrounded by curtains, which I put aside with great care in order not to wake her. I never went to the cradle, but I left the room softly and noiselessly when I had kissed my daughter.

I had been doing this for several days. Henriette said no more to me about her brother, but glanced furtively at me with a mischievous expression; it seemed that schemes were already brewing in that little head.

One morning I went as usual to the children’s room; I drew the curtains partly aside and kissed my daughter, and I was about to steal away on tiptoe when I heard a burst of laughter behind me; I turned and saw Henriette in her nightgown, crouching behind a chair; she came from her hiding-place, and began to hop and dance about the room, saying:

“I knew that I would make you kiss my brother.”

I looked at her in surprise, then hastily pushed aside the curtains of her bed; it was her brother who was lying there; she had put her little cap on his head, and his face was turned to the wall. He was the one whom I had kissed, as his sister had put him in her place. I was deeply moved. At that moment EugÈne’s little voice was heard; he called out without moving or turning:

“Can I move now, sister?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all over,” Henriette replied.

“What? What does he mean by that?” I asked.

“Oh, papa, he wasn’t asleep, he was only making believe; I turned his face to the wall and I said to him: ‘if you move, if you turn your head, papa will know you, and he won’t kiss you.’—He was very good, you see, he didn’t move at all.”

I could hold out no longer; I took EugÈne in my arms and covered him with kisses, as well as his sister, crying:

“After this you will both receive the same caresses from me; my heart shall know no difference between you; you shall be alike my children. Ah! it is better to love a stranger than to run the risk of spurning my son from my arms.”