Many years had passed; Louis Philippe had disappeared, then the Republic; the couple Coustel slept on the hillside, and I suppose even their bones had crumbled into dust in the grave. For my part, I had succeeded my grandfather at the post-house, and Uncle Eustache, as he himself had said, had taken his passport, when one morning, during the gay season at Baden and Homburg, there happened to me something quite surprising, and of which I still think frequently. Several post-chaises had passed during the morning, when, towards eleven o’clock, a courier came to inform me that his master, M. le Baron de Rosélière, was approaching. I was at table. I immediately rose to superintend the relay of horses. Just as they were being harnessed, a head was put out of the coach-window—an old wrinkled face, with hollow cheeks, and gold spectacles on the nose—it was the face of Nadasi, but old, faded, worn out; behind him leaned the head of a young girl; I was all astonishment. “What is the name of this village?” inquired the old man, yawning.
“Laneuville, sir.”
He did not recognize me, and drew back. Then I saw an old lady also in the coach. The horses were harnessed: they set off.
What a surprise, and how many ideas passed through my mind! Nadasi was the Baron de Rosélière. May God forgive me if I am wrong! but I still think that he sold the papers of poor Jeannette, and that he assumed a noble name to ward off the questions of the inquisitive. What was there to prevent him? Had he not obtained all the title-deeds, all the papers, all the powers of attorney? And now has he not had the thirty years of possession? Poor old Jeannette!... What misery we meet with in this life!... And God permits it all!...
[THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.]
FROM THE FRENCH OF REBOUL.
An angel bent with pensive air
Above an infant’s dream,
And seemed to view his image there
As in a stainless stream.