We made the journey without stopping. The farther I left Eugénie behind, the more relieved I felt. I could not understand how I had ever consented to remain where she was. Mademoiselle Derbin must have had great influence over me to make me forget all my resolutions. Should I ever have reached the point of standing in Madame Blémont’s presence without emotion? Oh, no! that could never be. When she defied me, I was angry; but now that she seemed to be suffering, I was more embarrassed than ever before her.
We arrived in Paris. When we left the chaise, poor Pettermann could not walk, his trousers were stuck to him; despite all his efforts to conceal his suffering, he made wry faces, which would have amused me if I had not been in such haste to reach Ernest’s house. I hired a cab and assisted my companion to enter it; he sat opposite me, exclaiming:
“Prout! this is what one might call travelling fast: two relays more and my rump would have been cooked.”
I was going to see my daughter again, to embrace her at my ease. How slow that driver was! how lazily his horses went! At last we arrived in front of Firmin’s house; I jumped from the cab before Pettermann had succeeded in moving.
Another disappointment: Firmin and his wife were at Saint-Mandé, where they had bought a little house; they passed the whole summer there. So I must go to Saint-Mandé. I procured their address, I returned to the cab, and we started again, to the utter despair of Pettermann, who had risen and could not sit down again.
Luckily, Saint-Mandé is not far from Paris. When we reached the village, I alighted, for I could go more rapidly on foot; I hurried forward and soon spied the house that had been described to me: two floors, gray blinds, an iron gate, and a garden behind; that was the place. I rang, or rather jerked, the bell. A servant came to the door.
“Monsieur Firmin?”
“This is where he lives, monsieur.”
I asked no more questions, but hastened up the first flight of stairs that I saw; I paid no attention to the maid, who called after me: “Monsieur is at work and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”—I was sure that Ernest would forgive me if I interrupted him in the middle of a scene or of a couplet.
I reached the first floor and passed through several rooms; at last I found my author. He opened his mouth to complain of being disturbed; but on recognizing me, he threw down his pen, and rushed to embrace me.