She died of consumption three years later, over there, in the colony of which her husband was governor, and to which she had gone across to join him. And here, in front of him, was their son, who was saying, in the metallic tones with which he rang out his closing words: "This piece of ground, monsieur, is a rare chance--" And Mordiane recalled the other voice, light as the touch of a gentle breeze, as it used to murmur: "My darling, we shall never part--" And he remembered that soft, deep, devoted glance in those eyes of blue, as he watched the round eye, also blue, but vacant, of this ridiculous little man, who, for all that, bore a resemblance to his mother. Yes, he looked more and more like her every moment--like her in accent, in movement, in his entire deportment--he was like her in the way an ape is like a man; but still he was hers; he displayed a thousand external characteristics peculiar to her, though in an unspeakably distorted, irritating, and revolting form. The baron was galled, haunted as he was all of a sudden by this resemblance, horrible, each instant growing stronger, exasperating, maddening, torturing him like a nightmare, like a weight of remorse. He stammered out: "When can we look at this piece of ground together?" "Why, to-morrow, if you like." "Yes, to-morrow. At what hour?" "One o'clock." "All right." The child he had met in the avenue appeared before the open door, exclaiming: "Dada!" There was no answer. Mordiane had risen up with a longing to escape, to run off, which made his legs tremble. This "dada" had hit him like a bullet. It was to _him_ that it was addressed, it was intended for him, this "dada," smelling of garlic--this "dada" of the South. Oh! how sweet had been the perfume exhaled by her, his sweetheart of bygone days! Duchoux saw him to the door. "This house is your own?" said the baron. "Yes, monsieur; I bought it recently. And I am proud of it. I am a child of accident, monsieur, and I don't want to hide it; I am proud of it. I owe nothing to anyone; I am the son of my own efforts; I owe everything to myself." The little boy, who remained on the threshold, kept still exclaiming, though at some distance away from them: "Dada!" Mordiane, shaking with a shivering fit, seized with panic, fled as one flies away from a great danger. "He is going to guess who I am, to recognize me," he thought. "He is going to take me in his arms, and to call out to me, 'Dada,' while giving me a kiss perfumed with garlic." "To-morrow, monsieur." "To-morrow, at one o'clock." The landau rolled over the white road. "Coachman! to the railway-station!" And he heard two voices, one far away and sweet, the faint, sad voice of the dead, saying: "My darling," and the other sonorous, sing-song, frightful, bawling out, "Dada," just as people bawl out, "Stop him!" when a thief is flying through the street. Next evening, as he entered the club, the Count d'Etreillis said to him: