"She will forget it too. She will understand that I am no longer the man I was, that I do not wish to be." "Then, really, what you wish is that she should share your life, the life of Lupin?" "The life of the man that I shall be, of the man who will work so that she may be happy, so that she may marry according to her inclination. We will settle down in some nook or other. We will struggle together, side by side. And you know what I am capable of. . . ." She repeated, slowly, with her eyes fixed on his: "Then, really, you wish her to share Lupin's life?" He hesitated a second, hardly a second, and declared, plainly: "Yes, yes, I wish it, I have the right." "You wish her to abandon all the children to whom she has devoted herself, all this life of work which she loves and which is essential to her happiness?" "Yes, I wish it, it is her duty." The old woman opened the window and said: "In that case, call her." Geneviève was in the garden, sitting on a bench. Four little girls were crowding round her. Others were playing and running about. He saw her full-face. He saw her grave, smiling eyes. She held a flower in her hand and plucked the petals one by one and gave explanations to the attentive and eager children. Then she asked them questions. And each answer was rewarded with a kiss to the pupil. Lupin looked at her long, with infinite emotion and anguish. A whole leaven of unknown feelings fermented within him. He had a longing to press that pretty girl to his breast, to kiss her and tell her how he respected and loved her. He remembered the mother, who died in the little village of Aspremont, who died of grief. "Call her," said Victoire. "Why don't you call her?" He sank into a chair and stammered: "I can't. . . . I can't do it. . . . I have not the right. . . . It is impossible. . . . Let her believe me dead. . . . That is better. . . ." He wept, his shoulders shaking with sobs, his whole being overwhelmed with despair, swollen with an affection that arose in him, like those backward flowers which die on the very day of their blossoming. The old woman knelt down beside him and, in a trembling voice, asked: "She is your daughter, is she not?" "Yes, she is my daughter." "Oh, my poor boy!" she said, bursting into tears. "My poor boy! . . ." EPILOGUE THE SUICIDE "To horse!" said the Emperor. He corrected himself, on seeing the magnificent ass which they brought him: "To donkey, rather! Waldemar, are you sure this animal is quiet to ride and drive?" "I will answer for him as I would for myself, Sire," declared the count. "In that case, I feel safe," said the Emperor, laughing. And, turning to the officers with him, "Gentlemen, to horse!" The market-place of the village of Capri was crowded with sight-seers, kept back by a line of Italian carabiniers, and, in the middle, all the donkeys of the place, which had been requisitioned to enable the Emperor to go over that island of wonders.