For some days Monsieur Roger made no allusion to the secret which now filled his soul, nor to that strange idea which filled his whole brain. He retired into himself, thinking that this folly which had suddenly come to him would go away as suddenly, and again feeling, in spite of all, the certain loss of a dream which had made him so happy. And still, the more he looked at Paul, which he did only on the sly, not daring to look him in the face, as formerly, for fear of betraying himself, the more and more evident and real did the mysterious resemblance appear to him. The Dalize family had remarked the absence of mind and the wandering look of Monsieur Roger. Still, they thought that that was simply because something had reminded him of his sorrows. Even Paul could not help taking notice of the new attitude which Monsieur Roger had taken up with regard to him. The kindness and sympathy which Monsieur Roger had shown him in the first few days of his acquaintance had greatly touched the motherless boy, whose father was far away on the other side of the ocean.

Now, for some days, it had seemed to Paul that Monsieur Roger sought to avoid his presence,—he neither spoke to him nor looked at him. Once only Paul had surprised a look which Monsieur Roger had given him, and in this sad look he had discovered an affection so profound that it felt to him almost like a paternal caress. Yet, Paul was forced to acknowledge that his father had never looked at him in that way.

One evening, after dinner, Monsieur Dalize led his friend Roger into the garden in front of the house, and said to him,—

"Roger, my dear friend, you have made us uneasy for some days. Now we are alone. What is the matter with you?"

"Why, nothing is the matter with me," said Monsieur Roger, surprised at the question.

"Why, certainly, something is the matter. What has happened to you?"

"I don't understand what you mean?"

"Roger, you oblige me to tread on delicate ground,—to ask you a painful question."

"Speak."

"Well, my dear friend, the change which we have noticed in you for some time is not my fault, is it? Or does it come from the surroundings in which you find yourself placed?"

"I don't understand."

"I ask if your grief—without your knowing it, perhaps—may not have been revived by the happiness which reigns around you? Perhaps the presence of these children, who nevertheless love you already almost as much as they do me, awakes in your heart a terrible remembrance and cruel regrets?"

"No, no," cried Monsieur Roger; "that is not true. But why do you ask me such questions?"

"Because, my dear friend, you are mentally ill, and I wish to cure you."

"Why, no, I am not. I am not ill either mentally or physically, I swear."

"Don't swear," said Monsieur Dalize; "and do me the kindness to hide yourself for some moments behind this clump of trees. I have witnesses who will convince you that I still have good eyes."

Monsieur Dalize got up, opened the door of the vestibule, and called Miette. She ran out gayly.

"What do you wish, papa?" she said.

"I want to see our friend Roger. Is he not in the parlor with you?"

"No; he always goes his own way. He does not talk to us any longer; and he has had a very funny, sad look for some time. He is not the same at all."

"Very well, my child," said Monsieur Dalize, interrupting the little girl. "Go back to the parlor and send me your brother."

Albert soon arrived.

"You wanted me, father?" said he.

"Yes; I want you to repeat to me what you told your mother this morning."

Albert thought for a moment; then he said,—

"About Monsieur Roger?"

"Yes."

"Well, I told mamma that for some time back I have heard Monsieur Roger walking all night in his room; only this evening I heard him crying."

"That is all that I wish to know, my child. You can go back again."

When Monsieur Dalize was alone, he walked around the clump of trees to rejoin Roger.

"Well," said he, softly, "you have heard. Everybody has noticed your grief. Won't you tell me now what it is that you are suffering, or what secret is torturing you?"

"Yes, I will confide this secret to you," said Monsieur Roger, "because you will understand me, and you will not laugh at your unhappy friend." And Monsieur Roger told the whole truth to his friend Dalize. He told him what a singular fixed idea had possessed his brain; he told him of the strange resemblance which he thought he had discovered between the features of his dear and regretted wife and the face of Paul Solange.

Monsieur Dalize let his friend pour out his soul to him. He said only, with pitying affection, when Monsieur Roger had finished,—

"My poor friend! it is a dream that is very near insanity."

"Alas! that is what I tell myself; and still——"

"And still?" repeated Monsieur Dalize. "You still doubt? Come with me."

He re-entered the chÂteau with Roger. When he reached the parlor he went straight to Paul Solange.

"Paul," said he, "to-morrow is the mail, and I shall write to your father."

"Ah, sir," answered Paul, "I will give you my letter; maybe you can put it in yours."

Monsieur Dalize seemed to be trying to think of something.

"How long a time is it," said he, "since I have had the pleasure of seeing your excellent father?"

"Two years, sir; but he will surely come to France this winter."

Monsieur Dalize looked at Roger; then he whispered in his ear,—

"You have heard."