Part 63 (1/2)

”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 furnis.h.i.+ng 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 fas.h.i.+onable a.s.semblage, but I was very sure that I should never be bored with my daughter.

The days pa.s.sed 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 ap.r.o.ns. That is the proper way to live in the country. Those who carry to the fields the fas.h.i.+on and the etiquette of the city will never know the true pleasures of country life.

I had been a fortnight at Saint-Mande, 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 Eugenie? 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 Eugene, 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 Eugene 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 pa.s.sed 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 Eugene 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 Eugene; 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 embarra.s.s 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. Eugene'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.