Monsieur Roger stayed up all the remainder of that night by the side of Paul, whose sleep was calm and dreamless, like the sleep which succeeds to some strong emotion, some great fatigue. Paul was still sleeping in the morning when Monsieur Dalize softly turned the handle of the door and entered the room on tiptoe. His entrance was made with so much precaution that Monsieur Roger himself did not hear him.

Monsieur Dalize had some seconds in which to observe Roger. He saw him sitting beside the bed, his eyes fixed upon the child, in a thoughtful attitude. Monsieur Roger was studying the delicate face which lay upon the pillow. He examined its features one by one, and, thinking himself alone, thinking that he would not be interrupted in this examination, he was calling up the mysterious resemblance with which he had already acquainted his friend. But he had not just now begun this study,—he had pursued it all night. The light, however, of the lowered lamp had not been favorable, and the emotion which he felt agitated him still too much to leave his judgment clear. When the morning sun had risen, chasing away all the vague images of the darkness and the doubts of the mind. Roger, having recovered his composure, looked at the child whom he had saved, and asked himself if the child was not his own. He was drawn from these reflections by feeling himself touched upon the shoulder. Monsieur Dalize had approached and asked,—

"Has he passed a good night?"

"Excellent," answered Monsieur Roger, in a low tone; "but we must let him sleep as long as he can. Give orders that no noise shall be made around here and that no one shall enter. He must awake of his own accord. When he awakes he will only feel a slight fatigue."

"Then I am going to give these orders and tell the good news," said Monsieur Dalize.

He retired as softly as he had entered, but by accident, near the door, he stumbled against a chair. He stopped, holding his breath; but Roger made a sign that he could go on. The slight noise had not awakened Paul, or at least had not awakened him completely; he had turned around upon his bed for the first time since he had been placed there. Monsieur Roger, who never took his eyes off him, understood that he was dreaming. The dream seemed to be a painful one, for some feeble groans and murmurs escaped him. Then upon the face of the sleeping child appeared an expression of great fear. Monsieur Roger did not wish to leave Paul a prey to such a dream. He approached near to raise him a little upon the bed. The moment that Monsieur Roger's two hands softly touched Paul's head, the expression of fear disappeared, the features became quiet and calm, the groans ceased, and suddenly there escaped his lips the single word "Papa."

Monsieur Roger started. With his trembling hands he still sustained the child; he bent over, ready to embrace him, forgetting that the child was sleeping and dreaming. Monsieur Roger was about to utter the name which choked him,—"My son."

Then Paul Solange opened his eyes. He looked up dreamily; then he recognized the face before him, and surprise mingled with affection in his tones.

"Monsieur Roger!" he said.

He looked around him, saw that he was in his own room, and remembered nothing else. He asked,—

"Why are you here, Monsieur Roger?"

Mastering himself, Monsieur Roger answered that he had come to find out how Paul was, as he had seen him suffering the night before.

"I, suffering?" asked Paul. Then he sought to remember, and, all of a sudden, he cried, "The fire over there at the farm!"

Although his memory had not entirely returned, he recollected something. He hesitated to speak. Then, with an anxious voice, he asked,—

"And Albert?"

"Albert," answered Monsieur Roger, "he is below; and everybody is waiting until you come down to breakfast."

"Then there were no accidents?"

"No."

"How fortunate! I will dress myself and be down in a minute."

And, in fact, in a few minutes Paul was ready, and descended leaning on Monsieur Roger's arm.

The latter, as they entered the dining-room, made a sign to them that they should all keep silence: he did not wish that they should fatigue the tired mind of the child with premature questions; but when they were sitting at the table, Paul, addressing Albert, said,—

"Tell me what passed last night. It is strange I scarcely remember."

"No," said Madame Dalize: "we are at table for breakfast, and we have all need for food,—you, Paul, above all. Come, now, let us eat; a little later we may talk."

"It is well said," said Monsieur Dalize.

There was nothing to do but to obey. And, indeed, Paul was glad to do so, for he was very hungry. He had lost so much strength that the stomach for the moment was more interesting to him than the brain. They breakfasted, and then they went out upon the lawn before the chÂteau, under a large walnut-tree, which every day gave its hospitable shade to the Dalize family and their guests.

"Well, my dear Paul," said Monsieur Dalize, "how are you at present?"

"Very well, indeed, sir, very well," answered Paul. "I was a little feeble when I first awoke, but now,—now——"

He stopped speaking; he seemed lost in thought.

"What is the matter?" asked Albert.

"I am thinking of last night at the farm,—the fire."

"Oh, that was nothing," said Albert.

"But," continued Paul, "how did we get back here?"

"In the carriage. Father came for us and brought us home."

"And how did we leave the farm?"

Monsieur Roger followed with rapt attention the workings of Paul's memory. He was waiting in burning anxiety the moment when Paul should remember. One principal fact, only one thing occupied his attention. Would Paul remember how and by whom he had been borne from the torpor which was strangling him? Would he remember that cry,—that name which had had the miraculous power to awake him, to bring him back to life? If Paul remembered that, then, perhaps—— And again Monsieur Roger was a prey to his fixed idea,—to his stroke of folly, as Monsieur Dalize called it.

The latter, besides, knew nothing as yet, and Monsieur Roger counted upon the sudden revelation of this extraordinary fact to shake his conviction. But Paul had repeated his question. He asked,—

"How did we leave the farm-house? How were we saved?"

And as Albert did not know whether he should speak, whether he should tell everything, Paul continued:

"But speak, explain to me: I am trying to find out. I cannot remember; and that gives me pain here." And he touched his head.

Monsieur Roger made a sign to Albert, and the latter spoke:

"Well, do you remember the turret, where we had our rooms? You slept above, I below. Do you remember the trap-door that I showed you? In the middle of the night I felt myself awakened by somebody, and I followed him. In my half sleep I thought that this some one was you, my poor friend; but, alas! you remained above; you were sleeping without fear. Why, it was Monsieur Roger who first saw the danger that you were in."

Paul, while Albert was speaking, had bent his head, seeking in his memory and beginning to put in order his scattered thoughts. When Albert pronounced the name of Monsieur Roger, Paul raised his eyes towards him with a look which showed that he would soon remember.

"And afterwards?" said he.

"And afterwards Monsieur Roger climbed upon the roof, at the risk of his life, and reached the loop-hole which opened into your chamber. He broke the glass of the window; but you did not hear him: the smoke which was issuing through the floor had made you insensible,—had almost asphyxiated you."

"Ah, I remember!" cried Paul. "I was sleeping, and, at the same time, I was not sleeping. I knew that I was exposed to some great danger, but I had not the strength to make a movement. I seemed paralyzed. I heard cries and confused murmurs, sounds of people coming and going. I felt that I ought to rise and flee, but that was impossible. My arms, my legs would not obey me; my eyelids, which I attempted to open, were of lead. I soon thought that everything was finished, that I was lost; and still I was saying to myself that I might be raised out of this stupor. It seemed to me that the efforts of some one outside might be so, that an order, a prayer might give back to my will the power which it had lost; but the stupor took hold of me more and more intensely. I was going to abandon myself to it, when, all of a sudden, I heard myself called. Yes, somebody called me; but not in the same way that I have been called before. In that cry there was such a command, such a prayer, so much faith, that my will at once recovered strength to make my body obey it. I roused myself; I saw and I understood, and, luckily, I remembered the trap-door which you had shown me. I could scarcely lift it; but there was some one there,—yes, some one who saved me."

Paul Solange uttered a great cry.

"Ah," said he, "it was Monsieur Roger!" And he ran to throw himself into the arms which Monsieur Roger extended to him.

Miss Miette profited by the occasion to wipe her eyes, which this scene had filled with big tears in spite of herself. Then she turned to Paul, and said,—

"But the one who called to you? Was it true? It was not a dream?"

"Oh, no; it was some one. But who was it?"

"It was Monsieur Roger," answered Albert.

"And so you understood him?" continued Miette, very much interested. "And he called you loudly by your name, 'Paul! Paul!'"

Paul Solange did not answer. This question had suddenly set him to thinking. No, he had not heard himself called thus. But how had he been called?

Seeing that Paul was silent, Albert answered his little sister's question:

"Certainly," said he, "he called Paul by his name."

Then he interrupted himself, and, remembering all of a sudden:

"No," cried he; "Monsieur Roger called out another name."

"What other name?" asked Monsieur Dalize, much surprised.

"He cried out, 'George! George!'"

Monsieur Dalize turned his head towards Roger and saw the eyes of his friend fixed upon his own. He understood at once. Poor Roger was still a slave to the same thought, the same illusion.

Madame Dalize and Miette, who were acquainted with the sorrows of Monsieur Roger, imagined that in this moment of trouble he had in spite of himself called up the image of his child. Paul, very gravely, was dreamily saying to himself that the name of George was the name which he had heard, and that it was to the sound of this name that he had answered, and he was asking himself the mysterious reason for such a fact.