I left the wood at once; Ernest followed me, after telling Dulac’s
second that he would send somebody to him.
At last, fate had been just; my thirst for vengeance had been satisfied.
I should have felt a little relieved, but I did not; it was because I
was not avenged on her who had injured me most. I thanked Ernest and
left him, promising him to go often to his house. He insisted that I
should come that very day to dine with them; but I felt that I must be
alone a little longer. I would go when I had learned to endure, or at
least to conceal, my sorrow.
I looked for an apartment in Ernest’s neighborhood, far away from that
in which I had lived. I hired the first vacant one that I found, then
returned home. I went to my landlord and paid what he demanded to allow
me to move at once. At last I was free. I ordered my furniture to be
moved instantly.
I dismissed my servant. I had no reason to complain of her, far from it;
but she had been in my service during the time that I was determined to
forget; I did not want to see her again. At last I was free. I gave her
enough to enable her to wait patiently for other employment.
My furniture was taken to my new apartment on Rue Saint-Louis. I
installed myself there. I felt better at once, for I breathed more
freely there. There is nothing like change, for diseases of the heart as
well as for those of the body.
I would have liked to go to see my son, but it was too late to start for
Livry that day. I went to Eugénie’s banker to try to find out where she
was. I wanted to write to her, I wanted her to give me back my daughter.
Two children would be none too many to take the place of all that I had
lost.
The banker was a most excellent man. I was careful not to tell him the
real cause of my separation from my wife. I gave him to understand that
our dispositions and our tastes had changed, and we had both thought it
best to adopt that course, which was irrevocable. So that it was not for
the purpose of running after my wife that I wanted to know where she
was, but simply to write to her on the subject of some business matters
which we had not been able to adjust.
He did not know where Eugénie was; she had not written to him; but he
promised to send me her address as soon as he knew it.
So I was forced to wait before seeing my daughter. If I had had her with
me, it seemed to me that I might recover all my courage and be happy
again. Yes, I believed that I could be happy again, embracing that sweet
child. If only I had her portrait. I had often had an idea of painting
her, but business or quarrels with her mother had prevented me from
beginning the work. “I will wait a few days,” I thought; “then the
original will return to me, and I will not part from her again.”
My regret at not having painted her portrait reminded me of that other
which I always carried with me. I determined to shatter it as she had
shattered mine long ago.
Eugénie’s portrait was set inside a locket. I took it out, opened it,
and in spite of myself, my eyes rested upon that miniature, which
reproduced her features so exactly. I do not know how it happened, but
my rage faded away. I felt moved, melted. Ah! that was not the woman who
had betrayed and abandoned me! that was the woman who had loved me, who
had responded so heartily to my passion, whose eyes were always seeking
mine! That Eugénie of the old days was a different person from the
Eugénie of to-day; why then should I destroy her portrait? I looked
about me; I was alone. My lips were once more pressed upon that face. It
was a shameful weakness; but I persuaded myself that I saw her once more
as she was five years before; and that delusion afforded me a moment’s
happiness.
Early the next morning I started for Livry. That road recalled many
memories. My son was only eleven months old; but I determined that as
soon as it could be done without injuring his health, I would take him
away from his nurse, and not go to that place any more.
I reached the peasants’ house. They asked me about my wife as before. I
cut their questions short by telling them that she had gone on a long
journey. Then I asked for my son. They brought little Eugène to me. I
took him in my arms and was about to cover him with kisses, when
suddenly a new idea, a heartrending thought passed through my mind; my
features altered, I put aside the child, who was holding out his arms to
me, and replaced him in his nurse’s arms.
That worthy woman utterly failed to understand the change which had
taken place in me. She gazed at me and cried:
“Well! what’s the matter? You give me back your son without kissing him!
Why, he is a pretty little fellow, poor child!”
“My son!” I said to myself, “my son! he is only eleven months old, and
Dulac began coming to the house before Eugénie was enceinte.”
A new suspicion had come to aggravate my suffering. Who could assure me
that that was my child? that I was not on the point of embracing the
fruit of their guilty intercourse?
At that thought I sprang to my feet.
“Are you sick, monsieur?” the nurse asked me.
I did not answer her, but left the house. I walked about for some time
in the fields. I realized that thenceforth I should not be able to think
of my son without being haunted by that cruel thought; when I embraced
the child, that suspicion would poison my happiness, and would diminish
the affection that I should otherwise have had for him. And these women
claim that they are no more guilty than we are! Ah! they are always sure
when they are mothers; they are not afraid lest they may lavish their
caresses on a stranger’s child. That is one great advantage that they
have over us. But nature does not do everything; one becomes a father by
adopting an innocent little creature; and he who neglects and abandons
his children ceases to be a father.