"You shall pass over my dead body first, do you hear? The child's happiness lies in this house and nowhere else. . . . With all your ideas of money and rank, you would only make her miserable. Who is this Pierre Leduc of yours? And that Veldenz of yours? Geneviève a grand-duchess! You are mad. That's no life for her! . . . You see, after all, you have thought only of yourself in this matter. It was your power, your fortune you wanted. The child you don't care a rap about. Have you so much as asked yourself if she loved your rascally grand-duke? Have you asked yourself if she loved anybody? No, you just pursued your object, that is all, at the risk of hurting Geneviève and making her unhappy for the rest of her life. . . . Well, I won't have it! What she wants is a simple, honest existence, led in the broad light of day; and that is what you can't give her. Then what are you here for?" He seemed to waver, but, nevertheless, he murmured in a low voice and very sadly: "It is impossible that I should never see her again, it is impossible that I should not speak to her. . . ." "She believes you dead." "That is exactly what I do not want! I want her to know the truth. It is a torture to me to think that she looks upon me as one who is no more. Bring her to me, Victoire." He spoke in a voice so gentle and so distressed that she was utterly moved, and said: "Listen. . . . First of all, I want to know. . . . It depends upon what you intend to say to her. . . . Be frank, my boy. . . . What do you want with Geneviève?" He said, gravely: "I want to say this: 'Geneviève, I promised your mother to give you wealth, power, a fairy-like existence. And, on the day when I had attained my aim, I would have asked you for a little place, not very far from you. Rich and happy, you would have forgotten--yes, I am sure of it--you would have forgotten who I am, or rather who I was. Unfortunately, fate has been too strong for me. I bring you neither wealth nor power. And it is I, on the contrary, who have need of you. Geneviève, will you help me?'" "To do what?" asked the old woman, anxiously. "To live. . . ." "Oh!" she said. "Has it come to that, my poor boy? . . ." "Yes," he answered, simply, without any affectation of sorrow, "yes, it has come to that. Three human beings are just dead, killed by me, killed by my hands. The burden of the memory is more than I can bear. I am alone. For the first time in my life, I need help. I have the right to ask that help of Geneviève. And her duty is to give it to me. . . . If not . . ." "If not . . . ?" "Then all is over." The old woman was silent, pale and quivering with emotion. She once more felt all her affection for him whom she had fed at her breast and who still and in spite of all remained "her boy." She asked: "What do you intend to do with her?" "We shall go abroad. We will take you with us, if you like to come. . . ." "But you forget . . . you forget. . . ." "What?" "Your past. . . ."