And Rodin hastened towards his hackney-coach. At this moment, the wind, which continued to rise, brought to the ear of the Jesuit the war song of the approaching Wolves.
The workman was in the garden. The marshal said to him, in a voice of such deep emotion that the old man started; “Father, I am very unhappy.”
A painful expression, until then concealed, suddenly darkened the countenance of the marshal.
“You unhappy?” cried father Simon, anxiously, as he pressed nearer to the marshal.
“For some days, my daughters have appeared constrained in manner, and lost in thought. During the first moments of our re-union, they were mad with joy and happiness. Suddenly, all has changed; they are becoming more and more sad. Yesterday, I detected tears in their eyes; then deeply moved, I clasped them in my arms, and implored them to tell me the cause of their sorrow. Without answering, they threw themselves on my neck, and covered my face with their tears.”
“It is strange. To what do you attribute this alteration?”
“Sometimes, I think I have not sufficiently concealed from them the grief occasioned me by the loss of their mother, and they are perhaps miserable that they do not suffice for my happiness. And yet (inexplicable as it is) they seem not only to understand, but to share my sorrow. Yesterday, Blanche said to me: ‘How much happier still should we be, if our mother were with us!—‘”
“Sharing your sorrow, they cannot reproach you with it. There must be some other cause for their grief.”
“Yes,” said the marshal, looking fixedly at his father; “yes—but to penetrate this secret—it would be necessary not to leave them.”
“What do you mean?”