The longed-for moment arrived at last. Eugénie made me the father of a daughter whom I considered a sweet little thing. My wife was disappointed for a moment, for she had hoped for a boy and had convinced herself that it would be a boy. For my own part, I was quite as well satisfied with a girl. I comforted Eugénie. My daughter, to whom her godmother, Madame Dumeillan, gave the name of Henriette, was placed in the charge of a stout, motherly nurse, who lived only three leagues from Paris, so that we could go often to see her. My wife soon recovered her health, but she retained some unevenness of temper and some caprices; what she decided to do in the morning she sometimes did not want to do at night. I am extremely good-natured, but I like to have people do what they have planned to do, and not act like weather vanes. My wife would express a wish to go to walk; and when I called her for that purpose, she would have changed her mind because it was necessary to change her dress; thereupon I would return laughing to my office. “If you make up your mind to go,” I would say to her; “you must come and call me.” As I passed through Rue du Temple one day, I heard someone call my name. It was Ernest, who was behind me. I was overjoyed to see him again and we shook hands warmly. “Is it really you, my dear Ernest? Mon Dieu! How long it is since we saw each other!” “Yes, more than a year. I suppose that you are married now; for you were just about to marry your dear Eugénie the last time that I saw you.” “Yes, I am married and I am a father; I wasted no time, you see.” “That is splendid. Do you still live in the same apartment?” “Yes; my wife likes it very much. And you?” “We live in this street, only a step or two from here. I gave you our address, and you promised to come to see us; but you have forgotten your neighbors of the attic.” “I plead guilty; the change that has taken place in my situation is my excuse.” “If you want us to forgive you altogether, you must come up and bid my wife good-morning. I say my wife, although we are not married. But for the benefit of concierges and strangers I feel bound to call her my wife; that is a sacrifice to the proprieties. After all, what difference is there between us and married people? Simply a signature on a great book! And that signature, and the oath, and all the promises made before men, do not make people behave any better.” “I am entirely of your opinion.” “At all events, we are very happy; we love each other as dearly as ever, and we snap our fingers at evil tongues.” “You are quite right, my dear Ernest, one should live for oneself and not for other people.” “Now that I am prosperous, I don’t care what my parents say; I owe nothing to anybody and I am as happy as a king, I mean, happier than a king. But come on; Marguerite will be very glad to see you; we often speak of you.”