In Search Of A Son Part 17

An hour later, Monsieur Roger, in his walk, saw at the turning of a pathway lined by young chestnut-trees a scene which brought a smile to his lips. Two camp-stools were placed in front of each other, some distance apart; upon one of these camp-stools Paul was seated, his alb.u.m and his pencil between his hands; on the other camp-stool was Miss Miette, posing for a portrait. Monsieur Roger approached.

When Miette saw him, she sat up, and, crossing her little arms, cried, with pretended anger,--

"I told you so: he is going to sketch me."

"Oh, Miette," said Paul, softly, "you have spoiled the pose."

Miette turned towards Paul, and, seeing that she had made him angry, returned to her former att.i.tude without saying a word. Monsieur Roger looked at Miette, so pretty, so restless by disposition, now forcing herself to sit quietly, with an expression of determination upon her face that was half serious and half laughing. Then he cast his eyes upon Paul's alb.u.m, but at that moment Paul was scratching over with his pencil the sketch which he had begun.

"Never," said he, discouraged, "never shall I be able to catch her likeness."

"That is not astonishing," replied Monsieur Roger. "I was struck at once with the change in her face. Miette in posing does not resemble herself any longer."

"That is true, sir; but why is it?"

"Why, because it is possible that it does not amuse her very much."

Miette began to laugh. Monsieur Roger had guessed aright.

"Oh, stay like that!" cried Paul, seeing Miette's face lighten up with gayety.

"I will remain like this on one condition."

"And what is that?"

"That our friend Roger will remain also with us. I shall have some one to whom I can talk, and you, Paul, will make your sketch at your ease."

"That is understood," said Monsieur Roger, seating himself upon a bank of stones beside the children. At first he lent a rather listless ear to Miette's words, for he was thinking of something else, and he only uttered a word or two in answer, which, however, allowed the little girl to think that she was being listened to. His eyes had travelled from the model to the artist. Since his arrival at Sainte-Gemme Paul's face had slightly changed: his hair, which had been cut short at school, had lengthened, and now fell over his forehead, shading the top of his face and giving him an expression that was slightly feminine; his large eyes, with long, black lashes, went from Miette to the sketch-book with a grave attention which the presence of a third party did not trouble at all. Roger's looks had rested upon Paul, full of that sympathy which the boy had inspired in him the first time he had seen him; but, instead of looking elsewhere at the end of a few minutes, his eyes were riveted upon Paul's face. He eagerly examined every feature of that face, which had suddenly been revealed to him under a new aspect. He had become very pale, and his hands trembled slightly. Miette perceived this sudden change, and, full of uneasiness, cried out,--

"Why, what is the matter?"

Recalled to himself by this exclamation, Monsieur Roger shook his head, pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes, and answered, striving to smile,--

"Why, there is nothing the matter with me, my dear, except a slight dizziness, caused by the sun no doubt. Don't be uneasy about me. I am going back home."

And Monsieur Roger left them at a rapid pace, cutting across the pathway to get out of sight of the children. He walked like a crazy man; his eyes were wild, his brain full of a strange and impossible idea. When he had reached the other end of the park, sure of being alone, sure of not being seen, he stopped; but then he felt weak, and he allowed himself to fall upon the gra.s.s. For a long time he remained motionless, plunged in thought. At last he got up, murmuring,--

"Why, that is impossible. I was a fool."

He was himself again. He had thought over everything, he had weighed everything, and he persuaded himself that he had been the plaything of a singular hallucination. Still reasoning, still talking to himself, he took no notice of where he was going. Suddenly he perceived that he was returning to the spot which he had left. He stopped, and heard the voice of Miette in the distance; then he approached as softly as was possible, walking on tiptoe and avoiding the gravel and the falling leaves. One wish filled his heart,--to see Paul again without being seen. He walked through the woods towards the side whence the voice had made itself heard. The voice of Miette, now very close, said,--

"Let's see, Paul. Is it finished?"

"Yes," answered Paul; "only two minutes more. And this time, thanks to Monsieur Roger, it will be something like you."

Monsieur Roger, hidden behind branches and leaves, came nearer, redoubling his precautions. At last, through an opening in the foliage he perceived Paul Solange. He looked at him with profound attention until the lad, having started off with Miette, was some distance away.

When the two children had disappeared, Monsieur Roger took the shaded path he had been following and went towards the chateau. He walked slowly, his head bent down, his mind a prey to mysterious thoughts. He had seen Paul again, and had studied his face, this time appealing to all his coolness, to all his reasoning power. And now a violent, unconquerable emotion bound him. In vain he tried in his sincerity to believe in a too happy and weak illusion, in a too ardent desire, realized only in his imagination. No, he was forced to admit that what he had just beheld had been seen with the eyes of a reasoning and thinking man whose brain was clear and whose mind was not disordered.

However, this thought which had taken possession of him, this overwhelming idea of happiness, was it even admissible? And Monsieur Roger, striving to return to the reality, murmured,--

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"It is folly! it is folly!"

Was it not in fact folly which had led him suddenly to recognize in the features of Paul Solange those of Madame Roger La Morliere? Was it not folly to have noticed a mysterious, surprising, and extraordinary resemblance between the face of Paul Solange and the sweet one of her who had been the mother of George? Yes, it was madness, it was impossible. Yet, in spite of all, Monsieur Roger said to himself, deep down in his heart,--

"If it were my son?"

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CHAPTER XIX.

THE FIXED IDEA.

For some days Monsieur Roger made no allusion to the secret which now filled his soul, nor to that strange idea which filled his whole brain.

He retired into himself, thinking that this folly which had suddenly come to him would go away as suddenly, and again feeling, in spite of all, the certain loss of a dream which had made him so happy. And still, the more he looked at Paul, which he did only on the sly, not daring to look him in the face, as formerly, for fear of betraying himself, the more and more evident and real did the mysterious resemblance appear to him. The Dalize family had remarked the absence of mind and the wandering look of Monsieur Roger. Still, they thought that that was simply because something had reminded him of his sorrows. Even Paul could not help taking notice of the new att.i.tude which Monsieur Roger had taken up with regard to him. The kindness and sympathy which Monsieur Roger had shown him in the first few days of his acquaintance had greatly touched the motherless boy, whose father was far away on the other side of the ocean.

Now, for some days, it had seemed to Paul that Monsieur Roger sought to avoid his presence,--he neither spoke to him nor looked at him. Once only Paul had surprised a look which Monsieur Roger had given him, and in this sad look he had discovered an affection so profound that it felt to him almost like a paternal caress. Yet, Paul was forced to acknowledge that his father had never looked at him in that way.

One evening, after dinner, Monsieur Dalize led his friend Roger into the garden in front of the house, and said to him,--

"Roger, my dear friend, you have made us uneasy for some days. Now we are alone. What is the matter with you?"

"Why, nothing is the matter with me," said Monsieur Roger, surprised at the question.

"Why, certainly, something is the matter. What has happened to you?"

"I don't understand what you mean?"

"Roger, you oblige me to tread on delicate ground,--to ask you a painful question."

"Speak."

"Well, my dear friend, the change which we have noticed in you for some time is not my fault, is it? Or does it come from the surroundings in which you find yourself placed?"

"I don't understand."

"I ask if your grief--without your knowing it, perhaps--may not have been revived by the happiness which reigns around you? Perhaps the presence of these children, who nevertheless love you already almost as much as they do me, awakes in your heart a terrible remembrance and cruel regrets?"

"No, no," cried Monsieur Roger; "that is not true. But why do you ask me such questions?"

"Because, my dear friend, you are mentally ill, and I wish to cure you."