She is young and rosy, and has large eyes; she is a pretty child.
She wears a dear little dress that becomes her well.
I have taken her up in my arms, and placed her upon my knees, and kissed her hair.
Why is her mother not with her? She is ill, and her grandmother is ill too.
She gazed upon me with an air of astonishment; she permitted me to caress her, embrace her, and devour her with kisses, but from time to time she cast an uneasy look at her nurse, who was weeping in a corner of the room.
At last I was able to speak.
“Marie!” said I. “My little Marie!”
I pressed her tightly to my bosom; she pushed me away with a low cry.
“Oh, sir,” said she, “you hurt me.”
Sir! It was nearly a year since she had seen me. She had forgotten me. Words, face, speech, all were faded from her memory; and who would recognize me in this dress, with my beard and my livid complexion? Was I lost to the only one that I should have cared to remember me?