I looked at my son--I thought of his mother. Once more, in spirit, I lay half asleep in the snow as I had done in that very spot thirty-six years before, during those frenzied wanderings around Paris. Once again I recalled Hamlet’s cold remark over the Ophelia he loved no longer, “What! the fair Ophelia?” “Long ago,” I said to my companion, “one winter’s day, I was nearly drowned here trying to cross the Seine on the ice. I had walked aimlessly since early morning----” Louis sighed. The following week he left me, and a great yearning for Vienne, Grenoble, above all, Meylan, came over me. I wished to see my nieces and--one other woman, if I could get her address. I left Paris. My brother-in-law, Suat, and his two daughters met me with joy. But my joy was chastened, for on entering their drawing-room the portrait of my dear Adèle--now four years dead--faced me. It was a terrible blow, and my nieces looked on in sorrowful amazement at my grief. Daily familiarity with the room, its furniture, the portrait, had already softened their loss to them; to me all was fresh. Dear tender-hearted Adèle! my willing slave, my indulgent guardian. How well I remember one day, after I came from Italy, that it rained in torrents, and I said: “Adèle, come for a walk.” “Certainly, dear boy,” she said, promptly; “wait till I get my galoshes.” “Really,” said my elder sister, “you must be quite crazy to want to paddle about the fields in such weather.” But, despite mockery and jokes, we took a big umbrella and arm-in-arm walked about six miles without speaking a word. We loved each other. After spending a peaceful fortnight with my brother-in-law, during which he got me Madame F.’s address in Lyons, I could no longer resist a pilgrimage to St Eynard, such as I had made sixteen years before. There soared the ancient rock, there stood the small white house ... to-day, her old home; to-morrow, perhaps, Estelle herself! Sixteen years had passed as one night, all was unchanged. The little shady path, the old tower, the leafy vines, the glorious view over the valley. Till then I had kept calm, only murmuring, “Estelle! Estelle! Estelle!” but now, overcome with emotion, I fell prone on my face, hearing with each heart-beat the fatal words: “Past! Past! Gone for ever!” I arose, and chipping from the tower a morsel of stone that she perchance may have touched, went on my way. There is the rock whereon I laid my posy of pink peas--but where are the flowers? Gone, or perhaps only past their flowering stage. Here is the cherry tree. How grown! I break off a fragment of bark and, passing my arms around the trunk, press it passionately to my breast. Dear tree, you remember her! You understand! At the avenue gate I resolved to go up to the house; perhaps the new owners would not be too suspicious of me. In the garden I met an old lady who seemed startled at the sight of a stranger.