He seemed to waver, but, nevertheless, he murmured in a low voice and very sadly:
“It is impossible that I should never see her again, it is impossible that I should not speak to her. …”
“She believes you dead.”
“That is exactly what I do not want! I want her to know the truth. It is a torture to me to think that she looks upon me as one who is no more. Bring her to me, Victoire.”
He spoke in a voice so gentle and so distressed that she was utterly moved, and said:
“Listen. … First of all, I want to know. … It depends upon what you intend to say to her. … Be frank, my boy. … What do you want with Geneviève?”
He said, gravely:
“I want to say this: ‘Geneviève, I promised your mother to give you wealth, power, a fairy-like existence. And, on the day when I had attained my aim, I would have asked you for a little place, not very far from you. Rich and happy, you would have forgotten—yes, I am sure of it—you would have forgotten who I am, or rather who I was. Unfortunately, fate has been too strong for me. I bring you neither wealth nor power. And it is I, on the contrary, who have need of you. Geneviève, will you help me?’ ”
“To do what?” asked the old woman, anxiously.
“To live. …”
“Oh!” she said. “Has it come to that, my poor boy? …”
“Yes,” he answered, simply, without any affectation of sorrow, “yes, it has come to that. Three human beings are just dead, killed by me, killed by my hands. The burden of the memory is more than I can bear. I am alone. For the first time in my life, I need help. I have the right to ask that help of Geneviève. And her duty is to give it to me. … If not …”
“If not … ?”
“Then all is over.”
The old woman was silent, pale and quivering with emotion. She once more felt all her affection for him whom she had fed at her breast and who still and in spite of all remained “her boy.” She asked:
“What do you intend to do with her?”
“We shall go abroad. We will take you with us, if you like to come. …”
“But you forget … you forget. …”
“What?”
“Your past. …”
“She will forget it too. She will understand that I am no longer the man I was, that I do not wish to be.”
“Then, really, what you wish is that she should share your life, the life of Lupin?”
“The life of the man that I shall be, of the man who will work so that she may be happy, so that she may marry according to her inclination. We will settle down in some nook or other. We will struggle together, side by side. And you know what I am capable of. …”
She repeated, slowly, with her eyes fixed on his:
“Then, really, you wish her to share Lupin’s life?”
He hesitated a second, hardly a second, and declared, plainly:
“Yes, yes, I wish it, I have the right.”
“You wish her to abandon all the children to whom she has devoted herself, all this life of work which she loves and which is essential to her happiness?”
“Yes, I wish it, it is her duty.”
The old woman opened the window and said:
“In that case, call her.”
Geneviève was in the garden, sitting on a bench. Four little girls were crowding round her. Others were playing and running about.
He saw her full-face. He saw her grave, smiling eyes. She held a flower in her hand and plucked the petals one by one and gave explanations to the attentive and eager children. Then she asked them questions. And each answer was rewarded with a kiss to the pupil.
Lupin looked at her long, with infinite emotion and anguish. A whole leaven of unknown feelings fermented within him. He had a longing to press that pretty girl to his breast, to kiss her and tell her how he respected and loved her. He remembered the mother, who died in the little village of Aspremont, who died of grief.
“Call her,” said Victoire. “Why don’t you call her?”
He sank into a chair and stammered:
“I can’t. … I can’t do it. … I have not the right. … It is impossible. … Let her believe me dead. … That is better. …”
He wept, his shoulders shaking with sobs, his whole being overwhelmed with despair, swollen with an affection that arose in him, like those backward flowers which die on the very day of their blossoming.
The old woman knelt down beside him and, in a trembling voice, asked:
“She is your daughter, is she not?”
“Yes, she is my daughter.”
“Oh, my poor boy!” she said, bursting into tears. “My poor boy! …”
Epilogue
The Suicide
“To horse!” said the Emperor.
He corrected himself, on seeing the magnificent ass which they brought him:
“To donkey, rather! Waldemar, are you sure this animal is quiet to ride and drive?”
“I will answer for him as I would for myself, Sire,” declared the count.
“In that case, I feel safe,” said the Emperor, laughing. And, turning to the officers with him, “Gentlemen, to horse!”
The marketplace of the village of Capri was crowded with sightseers, kept back by a line of Italian carabiniers, and, in the middle, all the donkeys of the place,
