Part 57 (1/2)

”Go away! Why monsieur has not ordered horses.”

”Can I not obtain horses at any hour at the post-house?”

”Oh, yes! but your servant here is in a fine state to start! I did not suppose that monsieur was thinking about going away.”

I went to Pettermann, I seized his arm and shook him, and called him by name.

”Prout! I am asleep,” murmured the tailor at last.

”But, my friend, I need you, so try to wake up.”

”Prout! I propose to drink enough to-day for a month; let me sleep; you can wake me when I am thirsty.”

It was utterly impossible for me to obtain a word more from him.

”I advise you, monsieur, to let your servant pa.s.s the night here,” said the girl; ”he will be left in peace, n.o.body will disturb him. Anyway, you see that it would be hard to make him stir. You can't take him away in this condition!”

The girl was right; I could not hope for anything from Pettermann that night. If I left Mont-d'Or, he was in no condition to accompany me.

Should I go without him, or wait until the next day before leaving the town? The latter course seemed to me the more reasonable. Besides, I remembered that I was in possession of Mademoiselle Derbin's portrait; after all the courtesies which she and her uncle had lavished upon me, would it not have been boorish to send the portrait to her without so much as bidding her good-bye? I determined to remain until the morrow; and to see to it that I did not meet Eugenie again before my departure.

I returned to my room and went to bed. I longed to go away, and yet I believe that I was not sorry to be obliged to remain.

XXI

A CHATTERBOX

On waking the next morning, my first thought was that Eugenie 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 a.s.sume 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 pa.s.sed 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 repet.i.tion of the previous evening. I did not propose to meet Madame Blemont 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie for sending me that portrait! If anyone could still plead for her, who could undertake that duty better than her daughter?