They met again the next day, however. He begged her to give him one last day of fraternal conversation, and to take one last friendly, quiet, _bourgeois_ walk with him. They went to the Jardin des Plantes, sat down under the great cedar, and visited the labyrinth. It was a mild day; there were no traces of the snow. The sun shone pale through the light-purple clouds. The buds were already bursting with sap. Laurent was a poet, a contemplative poet and artist, nothing else, that day: a profound, incredible tranquillity; no remorse, no desires, and no hopes; at intervals, flashes of ingenuous gaiety. Thérèse, who watched him with amazement, could hardly believe that everything was at an end between them. The next day, there was another terrible tempest, without cause or pretext, precisely as a storm gathers in the summer sky for no other reason than that it was fair the day before. Then, from day to day, everything became darker and darker, and it was like the end of the world, like continual flashes of lightning in the darkness. One night, he came to her house very late, in a completely dazed condition, and, having no idea where he was, without a word to her, threw himself on the sofa in the salon, and fell asleep. Thérèse went into her studio, and prayed to God fervently and despairingly to deliver her from that torture. She was discouraged; her cup was full. She wept and prayed all night. Day was just breaking when she heard the bell ring at her gate. Catherine was asleep, and Thérèse supposed that some belated passer-by had made a mistake in the house. The ring was repeated, once, twice. Thérèse looked out through the round window in the hall over the front door. She saw a child of ten or twelve years, whose clothes indicated that his family was well-to-do, and whose upturned face seemed like an angel's. "What is it, my little friend?" she said; "have you lost your way?" "No," he replied, "I was brought here; I am looking for a lady whose name is Mademoiselle Jacques." Thérèse ran down, opened the door, and gazed at the child with extraordinary emotion. It seemed to her that she had seen him before, or that he resembled some one whom she knew and whose name she could not remember. The child also seemed confused and undecided. She led him into the garden to question him; but, instead of answering her questions, he asked: "Are you Mademoiselle Thérèse?" while trembling from head to foot. "I am, my child; what do you want with me? what can I do for you?" "You must take me and keep me with you, if you will have me!" "Who are you? Pray tell me!" "I am the son of the Comte de ----" Thérèse restrained a cry, and her first impulse was to spurn the child; but suddenly she was struck by his resemblance to a face she had recently painted, looking at it in a mirror, in order to send it to her mother; and that face was her own. "Wait!" she cried, taking the boy in her arms with a convulsive movement. "What is your name?" "Manuel."