The husband thought not of his sins, of the liberty his abandonment of her had left his wife, of the sacred rights of maternal love. He took counsel only with his pride, which had just received a rough blow. He could not hide from himself that he no longer counted for anything with the woman who had loved him so well.
In his heart he had not given up the hope that Lise would return to his arms one day, more passionate and more submissive than even, when he himself, tired of his mistresses, should make a real attempt to win his pardon. Seeing her resigned, as she had seemed to be since the scene of the Boulevard Clichy, he had come to the belief, in his stupid vanity as a "beauty-man," that some evening, if he said but a word, if he made but a sign, it would suffice to rouse again in the senses of his wife the mad love of former days. But now there was no room left for doubt; all was indeed over between them. He fell into a jealous rage and deep humiliation, which made him exclaim suddenly:
"Well, so be it. But if so, I too am free."
In this frame of mind, and acting mechanically rather than from solicitude, he went into Mme. Meyrin's room to see his daughter. As he entered the bedroom, Mme. Daubrel, faithful to her promise, was with the child.
"Ah! pardon me; I did not know you were here," said Paul, coldly, to the young woman. "Marie is fortunate to have you, as her mother has abandoned her."
"You can not think that Lise would abandon her little girl," said Marthe. "Frightened by the news she received of her son—"
"Her son!" the painter broke in. "What if Marie were to fall sick while her mother was away?"
"God will not suffer that. Besides, am not I here?"
"Then you approve of Madame Meyrin's going?"