“I have reason to suspect,” she said one day, “that I am with child, and I am enchanted at the thought of giving you a dear pledge of my love.”
“If it comes at such a time it will be mine, and I assure you I shall love it dearly.”
“And if it comes two or three weeks sooner you will not be sure that you are the parent?”
“Not quite sure; but I shall love it just as well, and look upon it as my child as well as yours.”
“I am sure you must be the father. It is impossible the child can be Petri’s, who only knew me once, and then very imperfectly, whilst you and I have lived in tender love for so long a time.”
She wept hot tears.
“Calm yourself, dearest, I implore you! You are right; it cannot be Petri’s child. You know I love you, and I cannot doubt that you are with child by me and by me alone. If you give me a baby as pretty as yourself, it will be mine indeed. Calm yourself.”
“How can I be calm when you can have such a suspicion?”
We said no more about it; but in spite of my tenderness, my caresses, and all the trifling cares which bear witness to love, she was often sad and thoughtful. How many times I reproached myself bitterly for having let out my silly calculations.
A few days later she gave me a sealed letter, saying,—