“Papa, tell me about mamma, please.”
I kissed Eugène, and he was content with that reply; but my daughter caused me more and more embarrassment every day. However, she was capable of listening to reason, for her intelligence was in advance of her age. I stopped and sat down at the foot of a tree; then I drew my children to my side, and I said to Henriette:
“My dear love, you are no longer a child; I can talk reasonably to you.”
“Oh, yes, papa, I am more than seven years old, and I know how to read!”
“Listen to me: your mamma has gone away, to a very distant country; I do not know myself when she will come back; you must see that it makes me feel grieved not to see her, and whenever you mention her to me you increase my grief. Do you understand, my dear love?”
“Yes, papa. So I must never speak to you about mamma, eh?”
“At all events, do not ask me questions that I can’t answer.”
“But I can still think about mamma, can’t I?”
“Yes, my dear Henriette; and be very sure that as soon as she returns to Paris, her first thought will be to come to embrace you.”
My daughter said no more. That conversation seemed to have saddened both the poor children. They said nothing more, and I myself sat beside them, lost in thought.