I sat down at my desk. I did not know how to begin, for it was the first time that I had ever written to Eugénie. We had never been separated. I did not propose to indulge in any reproaches in regard to her conduct. What good would it do? One should never complain, except when one is willing to forgive. I would go straight to the point, without beating about the bush. “Madame, you have taken my daughter away; I wish, I insist, that she should remain with me. Keep your son; you can give him that name; but ought I too to call him my son? Take that child, and give me back my daughter. It will be no deprivation to you; besides, I will allow her to go to see her mother whenever you wish. I trust, madame, that I shall not be obliged to write to you a second time.” I signed this letter and sent it at once to the post; I was impatient to have a reply. I could no longer attend to business, so I abandoned my profession. I had enough to live on, now that I no longer proposed to keep house or to receive company. But what should I do to employ the time, which is so long when one suffers? I would return to my brushes; yes, I would cultivate once more that consoling art; I would give myself up to it entirely, and it would make my time pass happily. That idea pleased me; it seemed to me like returning to my bachelor life. But for my children, I would have left France and have travelled for some time; but my daughter was still too young for me to subject her to changes of climate which might injure her health. Two days had not passed when I received a letter from Aubonne; it was Eugénie’s reply. I trembled as I opened it. “Monsieur, you are mistaken when you think that it would not be a great deprivation to me not to have my daughter with me; I love her just as dearly as you can possibly love her. As for your son, he is yours in fact, monsieur. You know my frankness, so you can believe what I tell you. Things will remain as they are; my daughter shall not leave me. Appeal to the law if you wish; nothing will change my determination. “EUGÉNIE.” I could hardly endure to read that letter. I was angry, furious. She had dishonored me, she had made me unhappy, and she refused to give me back my daughter! Ah! that woman had no pity, no delicacy of feeling! She loved her daughter, she said; yes, as she had loved me; she defied me, she told me to appeal to the law! Ah! if I could do it! if I had proofs of her crime to produce! But no; even if I could, she knew very well that I would not; that I did not propose that the courts should ring with my complaints, that my name should never be mentioned in society without being the subject of a jest. Yes, she knew me, and that is why she had no fear. She declared that her son was mine and she expected me to believe her word! No! I would never see that child again, I wanted never to hear his name. But my daughter--ah! I neither could nor wished to forget her.