The Count's conduct is atrocious, and yet I understand it. His pride, his whole character, despotic; the horror of having been deceived. . . . And besides, is he really Stephane's father? . . . These two children born after six years of marriage, and a few years later to discover. . . . Suspicions often have less foundation. And then this fatal resemblance which keeps the image of the faithless one constantly before his eyes! The more decided the resemblance, the greater must be his hatred. Even his smile, that strange smile which belongs to him alone, Stephane according to Father Alexis, must have inherited from his mother. "I HAVE BURIED THE SMILE!" Frightful cry which I can hear still! Finally, I believe that in the barbarous hatred of this father there is more of instinct than of system. It lives from day to day. I am sure that Count Kostia has never asked himself: "What shall I do with my son when he is twenty?" August 14th. Ivan, of whom I asked news of Stephane, said to me: "Do not be uneasy about him any more. He has become much better within the past month, and he grows more gentle from day to day; this is the result of seeing death so near." M. Leminof greatly astonished me this morning. "My dear Gilbert," said he unreservedly, "I do not claim that I am a perfect man; but I am certainly what might be called a good sort of fellow, and I possess, in the bargain, a certain delicacy of conscience which sometimes inconveniences me. Without flattery, you are, my dear Gilbert, a man of great merit. Very well! I am using you unjustly, for you are at an age when a man makes a name and a career for himself; and these decisive years you are spending in working for me, in collecting, like a journeyman, the materials of a great work which will bring neither glory nor profit to you. I have a proposition to make to you. Be my coadjutor; we will compose this monumental work together; it shall appear under our two names, and I give you my head upon it, shall make you famous. We agree upon nearly all questions of fact, and as to our difference in ideas. . . Mon Dieu! we are neither of us born quibblers; we shall end in agreeing, and even supposing we do not agree, I will give you carte blanche; for, to speak frankly, an idea is not just the thing I should be ready to die for. What say you to it, my dear Gilbert? We will not part until the task is finished, and I fancy that we shall lead a happy life together."