“That is impossible.” “Why?” “I don’t know where she is now.” “Oh dear! suppose she was lost!” Henriette’s eyes were full of tears; she looked at me as she asked that question. Poor child! if she had known how she hurt me! I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugénie had returned, I felt sure that she would have asked to see her child; and I should never have denied her that satisfaction. But I heard nothing of her. Ernest and his wife never mentioned her to me, and although their silence was beginning to vex me, I did not choose to be the first to speak of Eugénie; besides, it was quite possible that they had heard no more from her than I had. Henriette was still looking at me; impatient at my failure to answer, she exclaimed at last: “Why, papa, what are you thinking about?” “About you, my child.” “I asked you if my poor mamma was lost, and you didn’t say anything. And Monsieur Eugène never asks about his mamma! That is naughty! He’s a hardhearted little wretch!” Eugène looked at his sister with a shamefaced air, then began to call out to me as if he were reciting complimentary verses: “Papa, tell me about mamma, please.” I kissed Eugène, and he was content with that reply; but my daughter caused me more and more embarrassment every day. However, she was capable of listening to reason, for her intelligence was in advance of her age. I stopped and sat down at the foot of a tree; then I drew my children to my side, and I said to Henriette: “My dear love, you are no longer a child; I can talk reasonably to you.” “Oh, yes, papa, I am more than seven years old, and I know how to read!” “Listen to me: your mamma has gone away, to a very distant country; I do not know myself when she will come back; you must see that it makes me feel grieved not to see her, and whenever you mention her to me you increase my grief. Do you understand, my dear love?” “Yes, papa. So I must never speak to you about mamma, eh?” “At all events, do not ask me questions that I can’t answer.” “But I can still think about mamma, can’t I?” “Yes, my dear Henriette; and be very sure that as soon as she returns to Paris, her first thought will be to come to embrace you.” My daughter said no more. That conversation seemed to have saddened both the poor children. They said nothing more, and I myself sat beside them, lost in thought. A few moments later a gentleman and lady came toward us. I had not raised my eyes to look at them, but I had heard my own name. It was Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece. They stopped in front of us. “Yes, my niece was right, it is our dear friend Monsieur Dalbreuse!” I rose and bowed to the uncle and niece. Caroline’s manner was cold but polite.