“You longed to see me? And your mother, what does she say when you ask her about me?”
“She doesn’t say anything; she just says: ‘That will do; don’t mention your papa.’”
“She doesn’t want you to think of me, she wants you to forget me!”
“And yet she talks about you all day.”
“Your mother?”
“Let me go and tell mamma that you are here.”
“No, my dear love, I haven’t time to speak to her now. I must leave you too, for a very long time perhaps.”
“What? are you going away again? Oh! stay with us, papa, don’t go away!”
Poor child! I should have been so glad to stay with her. I sat down on the bench where her mother had sat just before, I took her in my lap and threw my arms about her. For a moment I had an idea of taking her with me, of stealing her from Eugénie; but the dear child could not travel with me, and perhaps she would cry for her mother every day in my arms; for a child can do without her father much better than without her who gave birth to her. No, I must leave her with her mother; it was much better that I should be the one to suffer and to be unhappy.
These reflections made my heart ache; I sighed as I held my little Henriette in my arms; she gazed at me, and, seeing that I was sad, she dared not smile. Poor child! and I had thought of taking you with me! No, in my arms you would too often lose that lightness of heart which is the only treasure of your age.