I took the book in my hands and turned it over and over, as if to make sure that it was really mine; finally I opened it, to see if the painting had faded much in two years.
What did I see? The portrait of Eugénie was no longer there, but the portrait of my daughter, of my Henriette! Dear child! Yes, it was really she; there was her smile, there were her eyes. It seemed to me as if I had her before me! I kissed my child’s image. “Dear book,” I thought, “you shall never leave me again now; for although a child may tire of seeing her father, a father always takes pleasure in gazing at his child’s features.”—Ah! how grateful I was to Eugénie for sending me that portrait! If anyone could still plead for her, who could undertake that duty better than her daughter?
I desired to know who had placed those things on my mantel. I rang and Pettermann appeared, still rubbing his eyes.
“Pettermann, you were drunk yesterday?”
“Yes, monsieur, it was my day.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Why, not very long. I had a downright good one yesterday. Prout!”
“I know it, for I saw you and spoke to you.”
“Faith, I didn’t see you or hear you, monsieur.”
“Then you haven’t told anybody in the inn that I intended to go away last night?”