The banker was a most excellent man. I was careful not to tell him the real cause of my separation from my wife. I gave him to understand that our dispositions and our tastes had changed, and we had both thought it best to adopt that course, which was irrevocable. So that it was not for the purpose of running after my wife that I wanted to know where she was, but simply to write to her on the subject of some business matters which we had not been able to adjust.
He did not know where Eugénie was; she had not written to him; but he promised to send me her address as soon as he knew it.
So I was forced to wait before seeing my daughter. If I had had her with me, it seemed to me that I might recover all my courage and be happy again. Yes, I believed that I could be happy again, embracing that sweet child. If only I had her portrait. I had often had an idea of painting her, but business or quarrels with her mother had prevented me from beginning the work. “I will wait a few days,” I thought; “then the original will return to me, and I will not part from her again.”
My regret at not having painted her portrait reminded me of that other which I always carried with me. I determined to shatter it as she had shattered mine long ago.
Eugénie’s portrait was set inside a locket. I took it out, opened it, and in spite of myself, my eyes rested upon that miniature, which reproduced her features so exactly. I do not know how it happened, but my rage faded away. I felt moved, melted. Ah! that was not the woman who had betrayed and abandoned me! that was the woman who had loved me, who had responded so heartily to my passion, whose eyes were always seeking mine! That Eugénie of the old days was a different person from the Eugénie of to-day; why then should I destroy her portrait? I looked about me; I was alone. My lips were once more pressed upon that face. It was a shameful weakness; but I persuaded myself that I saw her once more as she was five years before; and that delusion afforded me a moment’s happiness.
Early the next morning I started for Livry. That road recalled many memories. My son was only eleven months old; but I determined that as soon as it could be done without injuring his health, I would take him away from his nurse, and not go to that place any more.
I reached the peasants’ house. They asked me about my wife as before. I cut their questions short by telling them that she had gone on a long journey. Then I asked for my son. They brought little Eugène to me. I took him in my arms and was about to cover him with kisses, when suddenly a new idea, a heartrending thought passed through my mind; my features altered, I put aside the child, who was holding out his arms to me, and replaced him in his nurse’s arms.
That worthy woman utterly failed to understand the change which had taken place in me. She gazed at me and cried:
“Well! what’s the matter? You give me back your son without kissing him! Why, he is a pretty little fellow, poor child!”
“My son!” I said to myself, “my son! he is only eleven months old, and Dulac began coming to the house before Eugénie was enceinte.”