“Oh, yes! but your servant here is in a fine state to start! I did not suppose that monsieur was thinking about going away.” I went to Pettermann, I seized his arm and shook him, and called him by name. “Prout! I am asleep,” murmured the tailor at last. “But, my friend, I need you, so try to wake up.” “Prout! I propose to drink enough to-day for a month; let me sleep; you can wake me when I am thirsty.” It was utterly impossible for me to obtain a word more from him. “I advise you, monsieur, to let your servant pass the night here,” said the girl; “he will be left in peace, nobody will disturb him. Anyway, you see that it would be hard to make him stir. You can’t take him away in this condition!” The girl was right; I could not hope for anything from Pettermann that night. If I left Mont-d’Or, he was in no condition to accompany me. Should I go without him, or wait until the next day before leaving the town? The latter course seemed to me the more reasonable. Besides, I remembered that I was in possession of Mademoiselle Derbin’s portrait; after all the courtesies which she and her uncle had lavished upon me, would it not have been boorish to send the portrait to her without so much as bidding her good-bye? I determined to remain until the morrow; and to see to it that I did not meet Eugénie again before my departure. I returned to my room and went to bed. I longed to go away, and yet I believe that I was not sorry to be obliged to remain. XXI A CHATTERBOX On waking the next morning, my first thought was that Eugénie was under the same roof with me. How changed she was! How pale and sad! Was it remorse, repentance, that had caused that change? Ah! it was very good of me to assume that it was; had she shown any remorse when I wrote to her to inform her that we must part and to ask her for my daughter? Had she shown any when she passed me so haughtily in the Bois de Boulogne? No; and moreover the sin that she had committed is the one for which repentance is least frequently felt; this is not a moral truth, but it is the truth none the less. No matter, I was determined to go. I did not propose to have a repetition of the previous evening. I did not propose to meet Madame Blémont again, and I did propose to return to my daughter. Poor child! With whom had she been left? And Ernest did not write to me! But I forgot that I had not let him know that I had made a prolonged stay in that town, where I expected to remain only a day or two. I rose and was about to ring for Pettermann, when, happening to glance at my mantel, I saw a note and a memorandum book which were not there the night before.