"I will not attempt to describe my grief; I had never loved a woman so passionately as I had loved Adèle. But I still had you, my son; I tried to transfer all my affection to you. Meanwhile, faithful to the oath I had sworn to Adèle, I went to see Isaure again. André also had died, and his wife now had only her adopted daughter to console her; she trembled lest I had come to take her away; but I reassured her. Why should I have taken that girl away from these mountains? Could she not live here more happily than in society, where her birth would have interposed an obstacle to her marriage?
"After my Adèle’s death, life in Paris was painful to me; but for you, my dear Alfred, I should have left the capital and settled down in this solitary house. Amid these mountains, near little Isaure, who, by her features and her childish charms, reminded me so forcibly of her mother, I loved to come and dream of that unfortunate woman, who had known only the sorrows of love, and in such a brief life had never felt those pleasures, those delightful emotions, which seem the attributes of youth and beauty.
"But you were growing, my dear Alfred; already the world attracted you with its pleasant chimeras; it presented to your eyes only enjoyment, pleasures, happiness; you were at that age when man enjoys life; I was just leaving the circle which you were entering. So that it was easy for me to come more frequently to Auvergne without your noticing my frequent absences. I came here, and sometimes passed a whole fortnight here. But, as I was still afraid that someone would recognize me and mention my sojourn at the White House, I always arranged to arrive here at night, and I never left the White House except after dark. Hence the reports which the superstitious mountaineers spread about this house; but I urged André’s widow not to try to correct the error of the peasants; the fear which this place inspired in them seconded my wishes, by keeping everybody away from this building.
"The more I saw Isaure, the more my affection for her increased; kindly, sensitive, affectionate, she had her mother’s heart and mind. The solitary life to which her birth condemned her was likely to keep her in these mountains permanently. Doubtless, in order to avoid arousing suspicion, and causing the little goatherd to be noticed, I should have done well to allow her to remain as ignorant as the other peasants in this vicinity. But I delighted, in spite of myself, when talking with Isaure to enlighten her mind and to train her judgment; I thought that, destined as she was to live away from the world, reading would be to her a source of pleasure and of agreeable distraction. So I taught her to read. Isaure listened to me with so much attention and docility that she made rapid progress during the short time that I passed at the White House. Thus did she little by little acquire knowledge and manners which were not those of a peasant girl; but the pleasure that her progress caused me made me forget the dictates of prudence; I did not reflect that such a wealth of attractions, of charms, and of intelligence would some day impress the stranger who should come to this valley.
"Isaure loved me as her protector and knew me only by the name of Gervais. I had told her that her parents entrusted her to my care when they died; that she had no one else in the world who took any interest in her. It was useless to distress her heart by the story of her mother’s misery. I gave her Adèle’s portrait, which that unhappy creature had given to me for her daughter; but I made Isaure swear that she would never show that portrait to anyone, and that she would never mention me or my visits to the White House; and she has always kept her word.
"It is nearly three years since André’s widow died, leaving her cottage to Isaure, who enjoyed there all the comforts which I could provide without arousing too much suspicion. At the death of the excellent peasant woman, I gave the girl a faithful and vigilant guardian, and I myself tried to come more often to see my Adèle’s daughter. Only when the peaceful inhabitants of the mountains were sound asleep, would I announce to Isaure, by a light placed in a window in this house, that I had arrived. During the day, I amused myself by visiting on foot the most beautiful parts of Limagne; and not until night did I return here. Although alone amid the mountains, Isaure was happy none the less; she laughed in secret at the terror of the peasants, who believed her to be something of a sorceress because she had some knowledge in botany and owned a book in which the manner of raising and taking care of animals is treated; in fact, she often told me that she had no wish, no desire; that her whole happiness consisted in living in her pretty cottage, and in taking her flock to the mountains; but the sweet child did not know love. You came to this valley, you caused Isaure to experience a new sensation, more keen, more imperious, than all the others; henceforth this cottage, these flocks, this landscape were no longer sufficient for her happiness.
"Two days ago I came again to this spot; I saw Isaure; but she was no longer the same. I had no need to question her concerning the state of her heart; the sweet child candidly admitted that a young man named Edouard had come to her cottage with a friend of his; that this Edouard had come again day after day; that he had told her that he loved her, and desired to make her his wife. My son had not told me in which direction he was going with his two friends, and I was very far from suspecting that you were the Edouard of whom Isaure talked to me. But at the portrait which she drew of your refinement, of your manners, I concluded that, being a fashionable young man, you could not intend to marry a peasant girl; I saw in this lover whom she described as so attentive and so tender, only another villain who was scheming to deceive a defenceless girl. Such, Edouard, were the motives which led me to forbid Isaure to listen to you any more. You can appreciate also all the motives which led me not to allow the mystery which surrounded her birth to be suspected. I have revealed this painful secret to you; I have made to you this confession, which is so humiliating to my self-esteem. Now, if heaven grants that we find Isaure, and you still deem her worthy to be your wife, I shall no longer oppose that union, since you now know the whole truth."
Edouard pressed the hand which the baron held out to him, and said:
"I shall love Isaure no less now, monsieur. I shall see in her only the daughter of your Adèle. Her charms and her virtues atone sufficiently for the blot upon her birth. May she soon be restored to us! And it will be my greatest joy to call her my wife."
Alfred, after affectionately embracing his father, as if to make him forget all the griefs which his narrative had revived, offered his hand to Edouard, saying: