“And in fact,” said Ernest, “she did abandon altogether the sort of life she had been leading formerly; she lived in the most complete solitude. But I learned a few days ago that she had gone to Mont-d’Or to take the waters, because her physician had prescribed that journey, her health being much impaired.--That is what has happened, my dear Henri. In telling you this story, we have not tried to move you by dwelling upon your wife’s repentance, although we believe it to be sincere. We know that her fault is not one a husband can forget, especially when he loved his wife as you did yours; but, even without forgetting, one sometimes forgives; and there are many guiltier women in the world. We cannot help pitying Madame Blémont, and sighing over the future of your children.” “My dear friends,” I said, taking a hand of each, “when I went away two years ago, your only wish was that I should forget a guilty wife; you had witnessed my despair, the tortures of my heart, and then you were perhaps more angry than I with the author of all my woes. To-day, the sight of Eugénie in tears, of her remorse, which I am quite willing to believe is sincere, has moved you, has touched you to the heart. You would like to induce me to forgive her; but do not hope for it. Although two years of absence have partly cicatrized the wounds in my heart, do not believe that it can ever forget the blow which was dealt it. Even if I should forgive her who destroyed my happiness, that happiness would not be revived, her presence would always be painful to me, I could never hold her in my arms without remembering that another also had enjoyed her caresses; such an existence would be a constant torment; I will not condemn myself to it. I cannot give my daughter a mother at that price; I think that I have done enough by maintaining her honor. Let us never return to this subject. As for little Eugène, I will do my duty. If I have not a father’s heart for him, it is because I must have some enlightenment to banish from my heart the suspicions which have found their way thither. Ah! I am greatly to be pitied for not daring to love the child whom I called my son.” Ernest and Marguerite looked at each other sadly, but could find nothing to reply. I rose, thinking of Pettermann, whom I had left in the cab. “Your house strikes me as a charming place; can you give me a room here?” I asked Ernest. “It is all ready, and it has been waiting for you a fortnight.” “Very good; but I don’t need Pettermann here; have I my apartment in Paris still?” “Yes, I would not give it up on the last rent day, because I expected you.” “In that case Pettermann can go there; and I, as you consent, will board with you; I shall go to Paris as little as possible.”