“Ah! I am very sure, my dear master, that you won’t abandon this young woman and this poor child.”
“No, Dupré, no, I shall not abandon them. But it is late and I am tired. I am going to bed, and to-morrow we will begin our search.”
Having once more commended Adeline and her daughter to the people of the house, honest Gerval retired.
During the night as during the day, Adeline was intensely excited at times, talking incoherently, and sometimes in a state of the most complete prostration, seeming to see nothing of what took place about her. They observed, however, that any noise, the sound of a loud voice, or the faintest cry, made her jump, and threw her into the wildest delirium.
The next day a doctor summoned by Monsieur Gerval came to see the unhappy young woman, but all his skill could accomplish nothing more than to calm her a little; he thought that a tranquil existence would make the alarming outbursts of her mania less frequent. But he gave little hope of the restoration of her reason, as he knew nothing of the cause which had led to its being unseated.
Dupré went to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and inquired concerning all the Jacqueses in the neighborhood. Only two peasants bore that name, and they had no idea what he meant by his questions about the young woman and her daughter. Dupré was unable to learn anything, and he returned to his master.
Monsieur Gerval had made no further progress in his investigations in Paris; the newspapers did not mention the disappearance of a young woman and her daughter from their home, and he could obtain no information concerning the name and family of his protégées.
Ten days passed, and Adeline was still in the same condition. Her prostration was less frequently disturbed by violent outbreaks; but when by chance a cry reached her ear, her delirium became terrible to see, and her condition was horrifying. Only her daughter’s voice never acted unfavorably upon her; that voice always went to the heart of the poor mother, who never mistook her child’s accents.
“My dear Dupré,” said Monsieur Gerval to his servant, at the end of those ten days, “I see that we must abandon the hope of ever finding out who this interesting young woman is. I have made up my mind what to do, my friend: I have determined to take these unfortunate creatures with me. As you know, I am going to retire to my estate in the Vosges. That solitary place, surrounded by woods, is best suited to our poor invalid. That is the doctor’s opinion, and we must be guided by it; and at all events nothing will disturb the tranquillity which the poor creature requires. We will look to it that she hears no cries there. We will bring up her daughter; Catherine, who is so fond of children, will look after the poor child, and the innocent darling’s caresses will pay me for what I do for her mother.—Well, what do you think of my plan, Dupré?”
“It delights me, monsieur, and I recognize yourself in it. Always kind and always doing good! You give all you have to the unfortunate.”