A MYSTERIOUS RESEMBLANCE.
The days passed by at the chateau of Sainte-Gemme quietly and happily.
Monsieur Roger, having fulfilled his promise to give the explanation of
gravity and of attraction, was careful to make no allusions to
scientific matters. He thought it useful and right to let his little
hearers find their own pleasures wherever they could. One afternoon he
saw Miette and Paul leave the house together. Paul had two camp-stools,
while Miette held her friend's album.
"Where are you going?" asked Monsieur Roger.
"We are going to sketch," answered Paul: "at the end of the park."
Miette put on the air of a martyr, and said to Monsieur Roger,--
"I think he is going to sketch me."
"Not at all; come along," replied Paul.
And Miette ran gayly after Paul.
An hour later, Monsieur Roger, in his walk, saw at the turning of a
pathway lined by young chestnut-trees a scene which brought a smile to
his lips. Two camp-stools were placed in front of each other, some
distance apart; upon one of these camp-stools Paul was seated, his album
and his pencil between his hands; on the other camp-stool was Miss
Miette, posing for a portrait. Monsieur Roger approached.
When Miette saw him, she sat up, and, crossing her little arms, cried,
with pretended anger,--
"I told you so: he is going to sketch me."
"Oh, Miette," said Paul, softly, "you have spoiled the pose."
Miette turned towards Paul, and, seeing that she had made him angry,
returned to her former attitude without saying a word. Monsieur Roger
looked at Miette, so pretty, so restless by disposition, now forcing
herself to sit quietly, with an expression of determination upon her
face that was half serious and half laughing. Then he cast his eyes upon
Paul's album, but at that moment Paul was scratching over with his
pencil the sketch which he had begun.
"Never," said he, discouraged, "never shall I be able to catch her
likeness."
"That is not astonishing," replied Monsieur Roger. "I was struck at once
with the change in her face. Miette in posing does not resemble herself
any longer."
"That is true, sir; but why is it?"
"Why, because it is possible that it does not amuse her very much."
Miette began to laugh. Monsieur Roger had guessed aright.
"Oh, stay like that!" cried Paul, seeing Miette's face lighten up with
gayety.
"I will remain like this on one condition."
"And what is that?"
"That our friend Roger will remain also with us. I shall have some one
to whom I can talk, and you, Paul, will make your sketch at your ease."
"That is understood," said Monsieur Roger, seating himself upon a bank
of stones beside the children. At first he lent a rather listless ear to
Miette's words, for he was thinking of something else, and he only
uttered a word or two in answer, which, however, allowed the little girl
to think that she was being listened to. His eyes had travelled from the
model to the artist. Since his arrival at Sainte-Gemme Paul's face had
slightly changed: his hair, which had been cut short at school, had
lengthened, and now fell over his forehead, shading the top of his face
and giving him an expression that was slightly feminine; his large
eyes, with long, black lashes, went from Miette to the sketch-book with
a grave attention which the presence of a third party did not trouble at
all. Roger's looks had rested upon Paul, full of that sympathy which the
boy had inspired in him the first time he had seen him; but, instead of
looking elsewhere at the end of a few minutes, his eyes were riveted
upon Paul's face. He eagerly examined every feature of that face, which
had suddenly been revealed to him under a new aspect. He had become very
pale, and his hands trembled slightly. Miette perceived this sudden
change, and, full of uneasiness, cried out,--
"Why, what is the matter?"
Recalled to himself by this exclamation, Monsieur Roger shook his head,
passed his hand over his eyes, and answered, striving to smile,--
"Why, there is nothing the matter with me, my dear, except a slight
dizziness, caused by the sun no doubt. Don't be uneasy about me. I am
going back home."
And Monsieur Roger left them at a rapid pace, cutting across the pathway
to get out of sight of the children. He walked like a crazy man; his
eyes were wild, his brain full of a strange and impossible idea. When he
had reached the other end of the park, sure of being alone, sure of not
being seen, he stopped; but then he felt weak, and he allowed himself to
fall upon the grass. For a long time he remained motionless, plunged in
thought. At last he got up, murmuring,--
"Why, that is impossible. I was a fool."
He was himself again. He had thought over everything, he had weighed
everything, and he persuaded himself that he had been the plaything of a
singular hallucination. Still reasoning, still talking to himself, he
took no notice of where he was going. Suddenly he perceived that he was
returning to the spot which he had left. He stopped, and heard the voice
of Miette in the distance; then he approached as softly as was possible,
walking on tiptoe and avoiding the gravel and the falling leaves. One
wish filled his heart,--to see Paul again without being seen. He walked
through the woods towards the side whence the voice had made itself
heard. The voice of Miette, now very close, said,--
"Let's see, Paul. Is it finished?"
"Yes," answered Paul; "only two minutes more. And this time, thanks to
Monsieur Roger, it will be something like you."
Monsieur Roger, hidden behind branches and leaves, came nearer,
redoubling his precautions. At last, through an opening in the foliage
he perceived Paul Solange. He looked at him with profound attention
until the lad, having started off with Miette, was some distance away.
When the two children had disappeared, Monsieur Roger took the shaded
path he had been following and went towards the chateau. He walked
slowly, his head bent down, his mind a prey to mysterious thoughts. He
had seen Paul again, and had studied his face, this time appealing to
all his coolness, to all his reasoning power. And now a violent,
unconquerable emotion bound him. In vain he tried in his sincerity to
believe in a too happy and weak illusion, in a too ardent desire,
realized only in his imagination. No, he was forced to admit that what
he had just beheld had been seen with the eyes of a reasoning and
thinking man whose brain was clear and whose mind was not disordered.
However, this thought which had taken possession of him, this
overwhelming idea of happiness, was it even admissible? And Monsieur
Roger, striving to return to the reality, murmured,--
[Illustration]
"It is folly! it is folly!"
Was it not in fact folly which had led him suddenly to recognize in the
features of Paul Solange those of Madame Roger La Morliere? Was it not
folly to have noticed a mysterious, surprising, and extraordinary
resemblance between the face of Paul Solange and the sweet one of her
who had been the mother of George? Yes, it was madness, it was
impossible. Yet, in spite of all, Monsieur Roger said to himself, deep
down in his heart,--
"If it were my son?"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]