"A subject of interest to us both?" repeated Roncherolle, replacing his hat on the table; "you surprise me; I thought that we no longer had anything of interest to say to each other. What is it all about?"
"You must have a very short memory, monsieur, since it is necessary for me to remind you of that—that result of our liaison—of our wrong-doing, alas!"
"Ah, yes! thrice alas!"
"Well, monsieur, that child, that little girl—for it was a girl—tell me, monsieur, what became of her? Formerly, when I questioned you on that subject, you always answered: 'Don't be disturbed, I know where she is, we shall find her again.'—But that was more than twelve years ago, monsieur, and it seems to me that it is high time that I should know what became of that child!"
Roncherolle moved about on the causeuse as he replied:
"Yes, yes, that is very true; there is the subject of the little girl; I had forgotten about her entirely, and you will understand in a moment why I had forgotten her; it was because it would have done no good to think of her, for I have no idea what became of her after I put her out to nurse."
"You don't know what became of her! why, that is abominable, monsieur, it is frightful; you break my heart!"
"No fine words, my dear friend. I beg you; with me, as you must know, they will miss their effect; I break nothing at all of yours; for if you had chosen to be a mother, to know and to enjoy the happiness which that title affords, you would not have begun by begging me to rid you of your child as soon as possible the instant that it came into the world."
"Monsieur, that is not true; you insult me, you slander me!"
"You are beginning again. Come, Lucienne, stop acting and listen to me. When you were in an interesting condition and on the point of emerging from it, we were journeying through the fertile pastures of Normandie; suddenly the fancy seized you to visit Ermenonville, the village that became so famous because a so-called philosopher—for I consider that that Monsieur Jean-Jacques had little claim as such, and that a man can hardly call himself the friend of mankind when he constantly inflicts injury on those who have conferred benefits on him—but no matter, he made the village of Ermenonville famous by living there, and especially by being buried there. I remarked to you that it was imprudent to approach Paris, where your husband might be, especially in your condition; but you were always obstinate in your whims, and I have never been able to thwart a lady. We reached Ermenonville in horrible weather; very good. The next day you felt ill and insisted on returning to Paris, to be sure of having all the necessary assistance in your condition; that was another imprudence. But no matter—I yielded. We reached Paris; we had hardly arrived, when whom should we see on the street but your husband! Very good; he didn't see us; you wanted to go away again, but it was too late; you brought a daughter into the world.—- In the confusion and embarrassment into which that event, anticipated though it was, cast us, you began by saying to me: 'Take the child away at once! find a nurse instantly, and let her go back to her home in the country this very day,'—I continued to do your will; I carried the little one—who was a sweet little thing, on my word!—to a room above yours, which I was occupying temporarily; and I said to my servant—I had Comtois then, a most intelligent fellow, whom I could never replace—I told him to find me a stout, healthy nurse. Comtois went away and very soon returned with the desired object: she was a peasant woman of excellent appearance—a Picard. I remember distinctly that she was a Picard. I gave her the child, and she raved over her; then she asked me for the layette; I confess that that embarrassed me sadly; you ought to have thought of that, madame, but you never considered it. I gave her all that I found at my hand: trousers, dressing-gown, shirts, cravats; I remember too that I gave her a handkerchief that belonged to you, and that I happened to have in my pocket. The nurse laughed heartily when I gave her all those things. I handed her a hundred francs in addition. She made a price for nursing the child, and it wasn't exorbitant. She asked me the little girl's names, but you and I had not fixed upon any. I said to the Picard: 'You may call the child Evelina de Paulausky'—yes, those are the names I gave her; I had just read a novel the heroine of which bore that name.—I then asked the nurse for her name and address, so that I might send her money and have news of the child. She gave them to me, and then she started off with her nursling. It was all arranged very quickly, as you see."