Part 64 (1/2)

”Well, what did she ask you to-day?”

”First of all, how monsieur was; then as I had a package under my arm, she said: 'Where are you going with that?'--'To Saint-Mande, mademoiselle.'--'Does Monsieur Dalbreuse live at Saint-Mande?'--'Yes, mademoiselle.'--'And is that bundle for him?'--'Yes, mademoiselle.'--At that she began to laugh, with a queer expression, and I noticed that the head of a jack-in-the-box was sticking out of the bundle. The uncle asked me: 'Is Monsieur Dalbreuse running a marionette theatre?'--'No, monsieur; there are some books in the bundle for my master, but the toys are for the children.'--'What! has he children with him?' cried the young woman.--'Prout!' I said to myself at that; 'there seems to be no end to these questions.'--So I took off my hat and saluted them, and told them that I was in a hurry.”

”Is that all, Pettermann?”

”Yes, monsieur.”

So Caroline had not forgotten me, although we had not parted on very good terms. But that was no reason why we should cease to think of each other; so many people part on most excellent terms and forget each other at once! That reminder of Mademoiselle Derbin caused me a pleasant emotion; she had such a strange temperament, a way of thinking that was not like other people's; and in spite of that, she had all the charm of affability of her s.e.x.

If Pettermann had still been there, I would have asked him whether Mademoiselle Derbin had changed, whether she seemed as bright and cheerful as formerly. I would have asked him--I don't know what else.

But he had gone. He had done well too. What occasion was there for me to think of Caroline? I had determined thenceforth not to love anybody except my children. It was a pity, however, for love is such a pleasant occupation!

It was three days after Pettermann had told me of that meeting. I was walking in Vincennes forest with my children. Eugene had become less timid with me; he smiled at me and kissed me, although he was not yet so unreserved as his sister, who made me do whatever she wished. I held a hand of each of them. I was listening to the chatter of Henriette and her brother's lisping replies, when my daughter mentioned her mother, and my brow darkened.

”Papa, why doesn't mamma come back?”

”She is ever so far away, my child. It may be that you won't see her for a very long time.”

”But I don't like that. Why don't we go to fetch her?”

”That is impossible.”

”Why?”

”I don't know where she is now.”

”Oh dear! suppose she was lost!”

Henriette's eyes were full of tears; she looked at me as she asked that question. Poor child! if she had known how she hurt me! I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugenie had returned, I felt sure that she would have asked to see her child; and I should never have denied her that satisfaction. But I heard nothing of her. Ernest and his wife never mentioned her to me, and although their silence was beginning to vex me, I did not choose to be the first to speak of Eugenie; besides, it was quite possible that they had heard no more from her than I had.

Henriette was still looking at me; impatient at my failure to answer, she exclaimed at last:

”Why, papa, what are you thinking about?”

”About you, my child.”

”I asked you if my poor mamma was lost, and you didn't say anything. And Monsieur Eugene never asks about his mamma! That is naughty! He's a hardhearted little wretch!”

Eugene looked at his sister with a shamefaced air, then began to call out to me as if he were reciting complimentary verses:

”Papa, tell me about mamma, please.”

I kissed Eugene, and he was content with that reply; but my daughter caused me more and more embarra.s.sment every day. However, she was capable of listening to reason, for her intelligence was in advance of her age. I stopped and sat down at the foot of a tree; then I drew my children to my side, and I said to Henriette:

”My dear love, you are no longer a child; I can talk reasonably to you.”

”Oh, yes, papa, I am more than seven years old, and I know how to read!”

”Listen to me: your mamma has gone away, to a very distant country; I do not know myself when she will come back; you must see that it makes me feel grieved not to see her, and whenever you mention her to me you increase my grief. Do you understand, my dear love?”