“Juliette!” cried both of my parents. I did not heed them, but ran to Decaisne. I told him I had hurt myself and that my father was so nervous about it he was unable to treat the wound.
Grandmother arrived next day to take me away. I had not spoken a single word to my father, or answered any of his questions, for I thought that he deserved severe blame.
Grandmother never guessed anything of the truth about this lamentable event, but she thought me feverish. I told her quite naturally before my father, how I had hurt myself, and she never gave a second thought to such a simple fact as the sudden shutting of a door on me, which was the version I gave her. My father winced under my protecting lies. I think he would have much preferred a scene of violent reproach to my calm indulgence.
I kissed him coldly as I left. Tears ran down his face, which induced grandmother to give him a passionate embrace.
“Come, my son,” she said, “we will divide her, and each take half, for she belongs solely to us.”
My mother at these words grew angry with me.
“You are clever enough to make yourself beloved,” she said in my ear, kissing me coldly, “but I do not see what you gain by the exaggerated love you inspire. Remember the log of wood!”
Grandmother got into the carriage. My father heard my mother’s last words, and was about to give way once more to his violent temper, but calmed himself, and said to me, kissing me with all his heart:
“Juliette, my darling child, forgive me!”
