CHAPTER XVIII.
A MYSTERIOUS RESEMBLANCE.
The days passed by at the chateau of Sainte-Gemme quietly and happily.Monsieur Roger, having fulfilled his promise to give the explanation ofgravity and of attraction, was careful to make no allusions toscientific matters. He thought it useful and right to let his littlehearers find their own pleasures wherever they could. One afternoon hesaw Miette and Paul leave the house together. Paul had two camp-stools,while Miette held her friend's album.
"Where are you going?" asked Monsieur Roger.
"We are going to sketch," answered Paul: "at the end of the park."
Miette put on the air of a martyr, and said to Monsieur Roger,--
"I think he is going to sketch me."
"Not at all; come along," replied Paul.
And Miette ran gayly after Paul.
An hour later, Monsieur Roger, in his walk, saw at the turning of apathway lined by young chestnut-trees a scene which brought a smile tohis lips. Two camp-stools were placed in front of each other, somedistance apart; upon one of these camp-stools Paul was seated, his albumand his pencil between his hands; on the other camp-stool was MissMiette, 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 attitude without saying a word. Monsieur Rogerlooked at Miette, so pretty, so restless by disposition, now forcingherself to sit quietly, with an expression of determination upon herface that was half serious and half laughing. Then he cast his eyes uponPaul's album, but at that moment Paul was scratching over with hispencil the sketch which he had begun.
"Never," said he, discouraged, "never shall I be able to catch herlikeness."
"That is not astonishing," replied Monsieur Roger. "I was struck at oncewith the change in her face. Miette in posing does not resemble herselfany 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 withgayety.
"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 oneto whom I can talk, and you, Paul, will make your sketch at your ease."
"That is understood," said Monsieur Roger, seating himself upon a bankof stones beside the children. At first he lent a rather listless ear toMiette's words, for he was thinking of something else, and he onlyuttered a word or two in answer, which, however, allowed the little girlto think that she was being listened to. His eyes had travelled from themodel to the artist. Since his arrival at Sainte-Gemme Paul's face hadslightly changed: his hair, which had been cut short at school, hadlengthened, and now fell over his forehead, shading the top of his faceand giving him an expression that was slightly feminine; his largeeyes, with long, black lashes, went from Miette to the sketch-book witha grave attention which the presence of a third party did not trouble atall. Roger's looks had rested upon Paul, full of that sympathy which theboy had inspired in him the first time he had seen him; but, instead oflooking elsewhere at the end of a few minutes, his eyes were rivetedupon Paul's face. He eagerly examined every feature of that face, whichhad suddenly been revealed to him under a new aspect. He had become verypale, and his hands trembled slightly. Miette perceived this suddenchange, and, full of uneasiness, cried out,--
"Why, what is the matter?"
Recalled to himself by this exclamation, Monsieur Roger shook his head,passed his hand over his eyes, and answered, striving to smile,--
"Why, there is nothing the matter with me, my dear, except a slightdizziness, caused by the sun no doubt. Don't be uneasy about me. I amgoing back home."
And Monsieur Roger left them at a rapid pace, cutting across the pathwayto get out of sight of the children. He walked like a crazy man; hiseyes were wild, his brain full of a strange and impossible idea. When hehad reached the other end of the park, sure of being alone, sure of notbeing seen, he stopped; but then he felt weak, and he allowed himself tofall upon the grass. For a long time he remained motionless, plunged inthought. 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 weighedeverything, and he persuaded himself that he had been the plaything of asingular hallucination. Still reasoning, still talking to himself, hetook no notice of where he was going. Suddenly he perceived that he wasreturning to the spot which he had left. He stopped, and heard the voiceof Miette in the distance; then he approached as softly as was possible,walking on tiptoe and avoiding the gravel and the falling leaves. Onewish filled his heart,--to see Paul again without being seen. He walkedthrough the woods towards the side whence the voice had made itselfheard. 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 toMonsieur 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 foliagehe perceived Paul Solange. He looked at him with profound attentionuntil the lad, having started off with Miette, was some distance away.When the two children had disappeared, Monsieur Roger took the shadedpath he had been following and went towards the chateau. He walkedslowly, his head bent down, his mind a prey to mysterious thoughts. Hehad seen Paul again, and had studied his face, this time appealing toall his coolness, to all his reasoning power. And now a violent,unconquerable emotion bound him. In vain he tried in his sincerity tobelieve in a too happy and weak illusion, in a too ardent desire,realized only in his imagination. No, he was forced to admit that whathe had just beheld had been seen with the eyes of a reasoning andthinking man whose brain was clear and whose mind was not disordered.However, this thought which had taken possession of him, thisoverwhelming idea of happiness, was it even admissible? And MonsieurRoger, striving to return to the reality, murmured,--
"It is folly! it is folly!"
Was it not in fact folly which had led him suddenly to recognize in thefeatures of Paul Solange those of Madame Roger La Morliere? Was it notfolly to have noticed a mysterious, surprising, and extraordinaryresemblance between the face of Paul Solange and the sweet one of herwho had been the mother of George? Yes, it was madness, it wasimpossible. Yet, in spite of all, Monsieur Roger said to himself, deepdown in his heart,--
"If it were my son?"
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