We made the journey without stopping. The farther I left Eugénie behind,
the more relieved I felt. I could not understand how I had ever
consented to remain where she was. Mademoiselle Derbin must have had
great influence over me to make me forget all my resolutions. Should I
ever have reached the point of standing in Madame Blémont’s presence
without emotion? Oh, no! that could never be. When she defied me, I was
angry; but now that she seemed to be suffering, I was more embarrassed
than ever before her.
We arrived in Paris. When we left the chaise, poor Pettermann could not
walk, his trousers were stuck to him; despite all his efforts to conceal
his suffering, he made wry faces, which would have amused me if I had
not been in such haste to reach Ernest’s house. I hired a cab and
assisted my companion to enter it; he sat opposite me, exclaiming:
“Prout! this is what one might call travelling fast: two relays more and
my rump would have been cooked.”
I was going to see my daughter again, to embrace her at my ease. How
slow that driver was! how lazily his horses went! At last we arrived in
front of Firmin’s house; I jumped from the cab before Pettermann had
succeeded in moving.
Another disappointment: Firmin and his wife were at Saint-Mandé, where
they had bought a little house; they passed the whole summer there. So I
must go to Saint-Mandé. I procured their address, I returned to the cab,
and we started again, to the utter despair of Pettermann, who had risen
and could not sit down again.
Luckily, Saint-Mandé is not far from Paris. When we reached the village,
I alighted, for I could go more rapidly on foot; I hurried forward and
soon spied the house that had been described to me: two floors, gray
blinds, an iron gate, and a garden behind; that was the place. I rang,
or rather jerked, the bell. A servant came to the door.
“Monsieur Firmin?”
“This is where he lives, monsieur.”
I asked no more questions, but hastened up the first flight of stairs
that I saw; I paid no attention to the maid, who called after me:
“Monsieur is at work and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”--I was sure that
Ernest would forgive me if I interrupted him in the middle of a scene or
of a couplet.
I reached the first floor and passed through several rooms; at last I
found my author. He opened his mouth to complain of being disturbed; but
on recognizing me, he threw down his pen, and rushed to embrace me.
“So you have come back at last, my dear Henri! We have been expecting
you every day.”
“Yes, here I am, my friend, and in a terrible hurry to see my daughter.”
“She is here. Your--your wi--Madame Blémont placed her in our charge.”
“I know it.”
“You know it? And I hoped to surprise you! Who told you?”
“Eugénie herself.”
“You have seen her?”
“At Mont-d’Or. I will tell you all about it. But pray tell me where
Henriette is.”
“All the children are in the garden with my wife.”
“Come, show me the way. But I beg you, say nothing to her; I want to see
if she will recognize me; a child forgets so quickly at her age!”
“My friend, it isn’t the children alone who forget quickly. I am sure
your daughter will recognize you.”
We went down into the garden; my heart beat fast with pleasure. At the
end of a path I saw Madame Firmin seated on a grassy bank; a little
beyond was a patch of turf, on which four children were playing. My eyes
sought my daughter only, and I recognized her at once. She had grown,
but she had changed very little.
The children were engrossed by their play, and they did not hear us
coming. Marguerite caught sight of us, and on recognizing me she started
to meet us. I motioned to her to stay where she was and to say nothing.
I walked softly to the patch of turf; I crept behind Madame Ernest, to
where a lilac bush concealed me from the children. Then I called
Henriette aloud.
She raised her head and looked about her in amazement, saying:
“Who called me? It wasn’t you, was it, my dear friend?”
“No,” said Marguerite, “but perhaps it was my husband, for here he is
now.”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t his voice. It is funny, but it was a voice that I
know.”
I called again without showing myself. Henriette seemed startled; her
face flushed and she trembled; she looked about in all directions,
crying:
“Why, I should think that it was papa’s voice!”
I could hold out no longer; I stepped from behind the bush; Henriette
saw me, uttered a shriek, and rushed into my arms, saying again and
again:
“Oh! it is my papa! it is my papa!”
“Dear love! how happy it makes me to hold you in my arms again! how
could I have delayed my return so long!”