This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionate tenderness for all created beings. He had gradually become more and more excited, and had so come to make this confession of his faith in the continuous and victorious work of animated nature. And Clotilde, who thus far had not spoken, pale from the catastrophe in which her plans had ended, at last opened her lips to ask: “Well, master, and what am I here?” She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree on which she saw her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. She insisted. “Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?” For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. “Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. You see what is written here? ‘Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of the mother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominance of the maternal grandfather.’ Nothing can be clearer. Your mother has predominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you have also something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of her submissiveness. Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your being aware of it, I would say that you love to be loved. Besides, your mother was a great novel reader, an imaginative being who loved to spend whole days dreaming over a book; she doted on nursery tales, had her fortune told by cards, consulted clairvoyants; and I have always thought that your concern about spiritual matters, your anxiety about the unknown, came from that source. But what completed your character by giving you a dual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, Commandant Sicardot. I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at least a great deal of uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not for him, I do not believe that you would be worth much, for the other influences are hardly good. He has given you the best part of your nature, combativeness, pride, and frankness.” She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signify that it was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lips trembled visibly at these new details regarding her people and her mother. “Well,” she resumed, “and you, master?” This time he did not hesitate. “Oh, I!” he cried, “what is the use of speaking of me? I do not belong to the family. You see what is written here. ‘Pascal, born in 1813. Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moral characters of the parents are blended, without any of their traits seeming to appear in the new being.’ My mother has told me often enough that I did not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where I could have come from.” Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy.