The Nabob, Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Alphonse Daudet

  XVII.

  THE APPARITION.

  If you wish for sincere, straightforward passion, if you wish foreffusive demonstrations of affection, laughter, the laughter of greathappiness, which differs from tears only in a very slight movement ofthe mouth, if you wish for the fascinating folly of youth illumined bybright eyes, so transparent that you can look to the very bottom of thesoul, there are all of those to be seen this Sunday morning in a housethat you know, a new house on the outskirts of the old faubourg. Theshow-case on the ground-floor is more brilliant than usual. The signsover the door dance about more airily than ever, and through the openwindows issue joyous cries, a soaring heavenward of happiness.

  "Accepted, it's accepted! Oh! what luck! Henriette, Elise, come, come!M. Maranne's play is accepted."

  Andre has known the news since yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of theNouveautes, sent for him to inform him that his play would be put inrehearsal at once and produced next month. They passed the eveningdiscussing the stage setting, the distribution of parts; and, as it wastoo late to knock at his neighbors' door when he returned from thetheatre, he waited for morning with feverish impatience, and as soon ashe heard signs of life below, the blinds thrown back against thehouse-front, he hurried down to tell his friends the good news. And nowthey are all together, the young ladies in modest _deshabille_, theirhair hastily braided, and M. Joyeuse, whom the announcement hadsurprised in the act of shaving, presenting an astonishing bipartiteface beneath his embroidered night-cap, with one side shaved, the othernot. But the most excited of all is Andre Maranne, for you know what theacceptance of _Revolte_ meant to him, what agreement Grandmamma had madewith him. The poor fellow looks at her as if seeking encouragement inher eyes; and those eyes, kindly as always, and with a slight suggestionof raillery, seem to say to him: "Try, at all events. What do you risk?"He also glances, in order to give himself courage, at MademoiselleElise, pretty as a flower, her long lashes lowered. At last, making abold effort, he says, in a choking voice:

  "Monsieur Joyeuse, I have a very serious communication to make to you."

  M. Joyeuse is surprised.

  "A communication? _Mon Dieu!_ you terrify me."

  And he too lowers his voice as he adds:

  "Are these young ladies in the way?"

  No. Grandmamma knows what is going on. Mademoiselle Elise, too, musthave a suspicion. That leaves only the children. Mademoiselle Henrietteand her sister are requested to retire, which they do at once, theformer with a majestic, annoyed air, like a worthy descendant of theSaint-Amands, the other, the little monkey Yaia, with a wild desire tolaugh, dissembled with difficulty.

  Profound silence ensues. Then the lover begins his little story.

  I should say that Mademoiselle Elise does in very truth suspectsomething, for as soon as their young neighbor spoke of a"communication," she had taken her _Ansart et Rendu_ from her pocket andplunged madly into the adventures of a certain Le Hutin, an excitingpassage which made the book tremble in her fingers. Surely there iscause for trembling in the dismay, the indignant amazement with which M.Joyeuse welcomes this request for his daughter's hand.

  "Is it possible? How did this come about? What an extraordinary thing!Whoever would have suspected anything of the sort!"

  And suddenly the good man bursts into a roar of laughter. Well, no, thatis not true. He has known what was going on for a long while; some onetold him the whole story.

  Father knows the whole story! Then Grandmamma must have betrayed them.And the culprit comes forward smiling to meet the reproachful glancesthat are turned in her direction.

  "Yes, my dears, I did. The secret was too heavy. I could not keep it allby myself. And then father is so dear, one cannot conceal anything fromhim."

  As she says this, she leaps on the little man's neck, but it is largeenough for two, and when Mademoiselle Elise takes refuge there in herturn, there is an affectionate, fatherly hand extended to him whom M.Joyeuse looks upon thenceforth as his son.

  Silent embraces, long searching glances, melting or passionate, blissfulmoments which one would like to detain forever by the tips of theirfragile wings! They talk, they laugh softly as they recall certainincidents. M. Joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him at firstby rapping spirits, one day when he was alone in Andre's room. "How isbusiness, Monsieur Maranne?" the spirits inquired, and he answered inMaranne's absence: "Not so bad for the season, Messieurs Spirits." Youshould see the mischievous air with which the little man repeats: "Notso bad for the season," while Mademoiselle Elise, sadly confused at thethought that it was her father with whom she was corresponding that day,disappears beneath her flaxen curls.

  After the first excitement has passed and their voices are steady oncemore, they talk more seriously. It is certain that Madame Joyeuse, _nee_de Saint-Amand, would never have consented to the marriage. AndreMaranne is not rich, far less of noble blood; but luckily the oldbook-keeper has not the same ideas of grandeur that his wife had. Theylove each other, they are young, healthy and virtuous, qualities whichconstitute a handsome dowry and one which the notary will not make aheavy charge for recording. The new household will take up its abode onthe floor above. They will continue the photographing business unlessthe receipts from _Revolte_ are enormous. (The _Imaginaire_ can betrusted to attend to that.) In any event, the father will be always athand, he has a good place with his broker and some expert work at thePalais de Justice; if the small vessel sails always in the wake of thelarger one, all will go well, with the help of the waves, the wind andthe stars.

  A single question disturbs M. Joyeuse: "Will Andre's parents consent tothis marriage? How can Dr. Jenkins, rich and famous as he is--"

  "Let us not speak of that man," exclaims Andre, turning pale; "he's amiserable villain to whom I owe nothing, who is nothing to me."

  He pauses, a little embarrassed by this explosion of wrath, which hecould not hold back and cannot explain, and continues in a milder tone:

  "My mother, who comes to see me sometimes, although she has beenforbidden to do so, was the first to be informed of our plans. Shealready loves Mademoiselle Elise like her own daughter. You will see,Mademoiselle, how good she is, and how lovely and charming. What amisfortune that she belongs to such a vile man, who tyrannizes over herand tortures her so far as to forbid her mentioning her son's name!"

  Poor Maranne heaves a sigh which tells the whole story of the greatsorrow he conceals in the depths of his heart. But what melancholy canendure before the dear face illumined by fair curls and the radiantoutlook for the future? The serious questions decided, they can open thedoor and recall the banished children. In order not to fill those littleheads with thoughts beyond their years, they have agreed to say nothingof the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they mustdress in haste and eat their breakfast even more hurriedly, so that theycan pass the afternoon at the Bois, where Maranne will read his play tothem, awaiting the hour to go to Suresnes for a fish-dinner atKontzen's; a long programme of delights in honor of the acceptance of_Revolte_ and of another piece of good news which they shall know later.

  "Ah! indeed. What can it be?" query the two children with an innocentair.

  But if you fancy that they do not know what is in the wind, if you thinkthat, when Mademoiselle Elise struck three blows on the ceiling, theybelieved that she did it for the special purpose of inquiring about thephotographing business, you are even more ingenuous than Pere Joyeuse.

  "Never mind, never mind, mesdemoiselles. Go and dress."

  Thereupon another refrain begins:

  "What dress must I wear, Grandmamma? The gray?"

  "Grandmamma, there's a ribbon gone from my hat."

  "Grandmamma, my child, I haven't any starched cravat."

  For ten minutes there is a constant going and coming around the charmingGrandmamma, constant appeals to her. Every one needs her, she keeps thekeys to everything, distributes the pretty, finely fluted white linen,the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the treasu
res which,when produced from bandboxes and cupboards and laid out upon the beds,spread throughout a house the sunshiny cheerfulness of Sunday.

  The laboring men, the people who work with their hands, alone know thejoy that comes with the end of each week, consecrated by the custom of anation. For those people, prisoners throughout the week, the crowdedlines of the almanac open at equal intervals in luminous spaces, inrefreshing whiffs of air. Sunday, the day that seems so long to worldlypeople, to the Parisians of the boulevard, whose fixed habits itderanges, and so melancholy to exiles without a family, is the day whichconstitutes to a multitude of people the only recompense, the only goalof six days of toil. Neither rain nor hail makes any difference to them;nothing will prevent them from going out, from closing the door of thedeserted workshop or the stuffy little lodging behind them. But when thespringtime takes a hand, when a May sun is shining as it is shining thismorning and Sunday can array itself in joyous colors, then indeed it isthe holiday of holidays.

  If you would appreciate it to the full, you must see it in the laboringquarters, in those dismal streets which it illumines, which it makesbroader by closing the shops, housing the great vans, leaving the spacefree for the romping of children with clean faces and in their bestclothes, and games of battledore mingled with circling flocks ofswallows under some porch in old Paris. You must see it in the swarming,fever-stricken faubourgs where from early morning you feel it hovering,soothing and grateful, over the silent factories, passing with the clangof bells and the shrill whistle of the locomotives, which give theimpression of a mighty hymn of departure and deliverance arising fromall the suburbs. Then you appreciate it and love it.

  O thou Parisian Sunday, Sunday of the working man and the humble, I haveoften cursed thee without reason, I have poured out floods of abusiveink upon thy noisy, effervescent joy, the dusty railway stations filledwith thy uproar, and the lumbering omnibuses which thou takest byassault, upon thy wine-shop ballads roared forth in spring-cartsbedecked with green and pink dresses, thy barrel-organs wheezing underbalconies in deserted court-yards; but to-day, renouncing my errors, Iexalt thee and bless thee for all the joy and relief thou bringest tocourageous, honorable toil, for the laughter of the children who acclaimthee, for the pride of happy mothers dressing their little ones in thyhonor, for the dignity which thou dost keep alive in the dwellings ofthe lowliest, for the gorgeous apparel put aside for thee in the depthsof the old crippled wardrobe; above all I bless thee for all thehappiness which thou didst bring in full measure that morning to thegreat new house on the outskirts of the old faubourg.

  The toilets completed, the breakfast hastily swallowed,[3] they areputting on their hats in front of the mirror in the salon. Grandmamma iscasting her eye around for the last time, sticking in a pin here,retying a ribbon there, adjusting the paternal cravat; but, while allthe little party are pawing the floor impatiently, beckoned out of doorsby the beauty of the day, suddenly their gayety is clouded by a ring atthe door-bell.

  FOOTNOTES:

  [3] There is in the text at this point a play upon words which it isimpossible to render in English. "Les toilettes terminees, le dejeunerfini, pris sur le pouce--et sur le pouce de ces demoiselles vous pensezce qu'il peut tenir," etc., that is to say: "the breakfast at an end,taken upon the thumb--and you can imagine how much the thumbs of thoseyoung ladies would hold." To eat _sur le pouce_ (eat upon the thumb)means to eat hastily, without taking time to sit down.

  "Suppose we don't go to the door?" the children suggest.

  And what relief, what a shout of joy when friend Paul appears!

  "Come quick, quick; let us tell you the good news!"

  He knew before anybody else that the play was accepted. He had haddifficulty enough in making Cardailhac read it, for at the first sightof the "little lines," as he called the verses, he wanted to send themanuscript to the Levantine and her _masseur_, as he did with all therubbish that was sent to him. But Paul was careful not to speak of hisintervention. As for the other great event, which was not mentionedbecause of the children, he guessed it without difficulty from thetremulous happiness of Maranne, whose fair hair stood straight on endover his forehead,--because the poet constantly thrust both handsthrough it, as he always did in his moments of joy,--from the slightlyembarrassed demeanor of Elise, and from the triumphant airs of M.Joyeuse, who stood proudly erect in his spotless linen, with all thehappiness of his dear ones written on his face.

  Grandmamma alone preserved her usual tranquil bearing; but one detectedin her, in the zeal with which she waited upon her sister, a moreaffectionate warmth than usual, a wish to make her attractive. And itwas delightful to see that girl of twenty intent upon beautifyinganother, without envy or regret, with something of the sweetrenunciation of a mother celebrating her daughter's young love in memoryof her own bygone happiness. Paul saw it, indeed he was the only one whosaw it; but, while he gazed in admiration at Aline, he asked himselfsadly if there would ever be room in that motherly heart for other thanfamily attachments, for interests outside of the tranquil circle oflight in which Grandmamma presided so prettily over the work-table inthe evening.

  Love, as we know, is a poor blind boy, bereft of speech and hearing aswell, and with no other guide than prescience, divination, the nervousfaculties of the invalid. Really, it is pitiful to see him wander about,feeling his way, faltering at every step, tapping with his fingers theprojections upon which he depends for guidance, with the distrustfulawkwardness of an infirm old man. At the very moment when he wasmentally casting a doubt upon Aline's susceptibility, Paul, havinginformed his friends that he was about to leave Paris for a journey ofseveral days, of several weeks perhaps, did not notice the girl's suddenpallor, did not hear the sorrowful exclamation from her discreet lips:

  "You are going away?"

  He was going away, he was going to Tunis, very uneasy at the idea ofleaving his poor Nabob in the midst of his bloodthirsty pack ofpursuers; however, Mora's friendship reassured him somewhat, and,moreover, the journey was absolutely necessary.

  "And what about the _Territoriale_?" asked the old book-keeper, alwaysrecurring to his fixed idea. "How does that stand? I see thatJansoulet's name is still at the head of the administrative council.Can't you get him out of that Ali Baba's cave? Beware, beware!"

  "Ah! I know it, Monsieur Joyeuse. But in order to get out of it withhonor, we must have money, much money, must sacrifice two or threemillions more; and we haven't them. That is why I am going to Tunis, totry and extort from the bey's rapacity a small portion of the greatfortune which he so unjustly withholds. At this moment I have somechance of success, whereas a little later perhaps--"

  "Go at once then, my dear boy, and if you return with a bag full ofmoney as I trust you will, attend first of all to the Paganetti gang.Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest will be enoughto blow the whole thing into the air, to demand an inquiry; and you knowas well as I what an inquiry would disclose. On reflection," added M.Joyeuse, wrinkling his brow, "I am surprised that Hemerlingue in hishatred of you has not secretly procured a few shares--"

  He was interrupted by the concert of maledictions, of imprecations whichthe name of Hemerlingue always called forth from all those young people,who hated the corpulent banker for the injury he had done their fatherand for the injury he wished to do the worthy Nabob, who was adored inthat household for Paul de Gery's sake.

  "Hemerlingue, the heartless creature! Villain! Wicked man!"

  But, amid that chorus of outcries, the _Imaginaire_ worked out histheory of the stout baron becoming a shareholder in the _Territoriale_in order to drag his enemy before the courts. And we can imagine AndreMaranne's stupefaction, knowing absolutely nothing of the affair, whenhe saw M. Joyeuse turn toward him, his face purple and swollen withrage, and point his finger at him with these terrible words:

  "The greatest rascal here is yourself, monsieur!"

  "O papa, papa! what are you saying?"

  "Eh? What's that?--Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear An
dre. I imaginedthat I was in the examining magistrate's office, confronting thatvillain. It's my infernal brain that is forever rushing off to thedevil."

  A roar of laughter rang out through all the open windows, mingling withthe rumbling of innumerable carriages and the chatter of gayly-dressedcrowds on Avenue des Ternes; and the author of _Revolte_ took advantageof the diversion to inquire if they did not propose to start soon. Itwas late--the good places in the Bois would all be taken.

  "The Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday!" exclaimed Paul de Gery.

  "Oh! our Bois is not the same as yours," replied Aline with a smile."Come with us, and you will see."

  * * * * *

  Has it ever happened to you, when you were walking alone and incontemplative mood, to lie flat on your face in the grassy underbrush ofa forest, amid the peculiar vegetation, of many and varying species,that grows between the fallen autumn leaves, and to let your eyes strayalong the level of the earth before you? Gradually the idea of heightvanishes, the interlaced branches of the oaks above your head form aninaccessible sky, and you see a new forest stretching out beneath theother, opening its long avenues pierced by a mysterious green light andlined by slender or tufted shrubs ending in round tops of exotic or wildaspect, stalks of sugar-cane, the graceful rigidity of palms, slendercups holding a drop of water, girandoles bearing little yellow lightswhich flicker in the passing breeze. And the miraculous feature of itall is that beneath those slender stalks live miniature plants andmyriads of insects whose existence, seen at such close quarters, revealsall its mysteries to you. An ant, staggering like a woodcutter under hisburden, drags a piece of bark larger than himself; a beetle crawls alonga blade of grass stretched like a bridge from trunk to trunk; while,beneath a tall fern standing by itself in a clearing carpeted withvelvety moss, some little blue or red creature waits, its antennae on thealert, until some other beast, on its way thither by some deserted path,arrives at the rendezvous under the gigantic tree. It is a small forestbeneath the large one, too near the ground for the latter to perceiveit, too humble, too securely hidden to be reached by its grand orchestraof songs and tempests.

  A similar phenomenon takes place in the Bois de Boulogne. Behind thoseneat, well-watered gravelled paths, where long lines of wheels movingslowly around the lake draw a furrow by constant wear throughout theday, with the precision of a machine, behind that wonderfulstage-setting of verdure-covered walls, of captive streams, offlower-girt rocks, the real forest, the wild forest, with its luxuriantunderbrush, advances and recedes, forming impenetrable shadows traversedby narrow paths and rippling brooks. That is the forest of the lowly,the forest of the humble, the little forest under the great. And Paul,who knew nothing of the aristocratic resort save the long avenues, thegleaming lake as seen from the back seat of a carriage or from the topof a break in the dust of a return from Longchamps, was amazed to seethe deliciously secluded nook to which his friends escorted him.

  It was on the edge of a pond that lay mirrorlike beneath the willows,covered with lilies and lentils, with great patches of white here andthere, where the sun's rays fell upon the gleaming surface, and streakedwith great tendrils of _argyronetes_ as with lines drawn by diamondpoints.

  They had seated themselves, to listen to the reading of the play, on thesloping bank, covered with verdure already dense, although made up ofslender plants, and the pretty attentive faces, the skirts spread outupon the grass made one think of a more innocent and chaste Decameron ina reposeful atmosphere. To complete the picture of nature at itsloveliest, the distant rustic landscape, two windmills could be seenthrough an opening between the branches, turning in the direction ofSuresnes, while, of the dazzling gorgeous vision to be seen at everycross-road in the Bois, naught reached them save a confused endlessrumbling, to which they finally became so accustomed that they did nothear it at all. The poet's voice alone, fresh and eloquent, rose in thesilence, the lines came quivering forth, repeated in undertones by otherdeeply-moved lips, and there were murmured words of approval, andthrills of emotion at the tragic passages. Grandmamma, indeed, was seento wipe away a great tear. But that was because she had no embroidery inher hand.

  The first work! That is what _Revolte_ was to Andre--the first work,always too copious and diffuse, into which the author tosses first ofall a whole lifetime of ideas and opinions, pressing for utterance likewater against the edge of a dam, and which is often the richest, if notthe best, of an author's productions. As for the fate that awaited it,no one could say what it might be; and the uncertainty that hoveredabout the reading of the drama added to his emotion the emotion of eachof his auditors, the white-robed hopes of Mademoiselle Elise, M.Joyeuse's fanciful hallucinations and the more positive desires ofAline, who was already in anticipation installing her sister in thenest, rocked by the winds but envied by the multitude, of an artist'shousehold!

  Ah! if one of those pleasure-seekers circling the lake for the hundredthtime, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habit, had chanced to put asidethe branches, how surprised he would have been at that picture! Butwould he have suspected all the passion and dreams and poetry and hopethat were contained in that little nook of verdure hardly larger thanthe denticulated shadow of a fern on the moss?

  "You were right, I did not know the Bois," said Paul in an undertone toAline, as she leaned on his arm.

  They were following a narrow sheltered path, and as they talked theywalked very rapidly, far in advance of the others. But it was not PereKontzen's terrace nor his crisp fritters that attracted them. No, thenoble verses they had heard had carried them to a great height, and theyhad not yet descended. They walked straight on toward the ever-recedingend of the path, which broadened at its extremity into a luminous glory,a dust of sunbeams, as if all the sunshine of that lovely day awaitedthem at the edge of the woods. Paul had never felt so happy. The lightarm resting on his, the childlike step by which his own was guided,would have made life as sweet and pleasant to him as that walk upon themossy carpet of a green path. He would have told the young girl as much,in words as simple as his feelings, had he not feared to alarm Aline'sconfidence, caused doubtless by the feeling which she knew that heentertained for another, and which seemed to forbid any thought of lovebetween them.

  Suddenly, directly in front of them, a group of equestrians stood outagainst the bright background, at first vague and indistinct, thentaking shape as a man and woman beautifully mounted and turning into themysterious path among the shafts of gold, the leafy shadows, the myriadspecks of light with which the ground was dotted, which they displacedas they cantered forward, and which ran in fanciful designs from thehorses' breasts to the Amazon's veil. They rode slowly, capriciously,and the two young people, who had stepped into the bushes, could seeperfectly as they passed quite near to them, with a creaking of newleather, a jangling of bits tossed proudly and white with foam as aftera wild gallop, two superb horses bearing a human couple compelled toride close together by the narrowing of the path; he supporting with onearm the flexible form moulded into a waist of dark cloth, she, with herhand on her companion's shoulder and her little head, in profile--hiddenbeneath the tulle of her half-fallen veil--resting tenderly thereon.That amorous entwining, cradled by the impatience of the steeds, restiveunder the restraint imposed upon their fiery spirits, that kiss, causingthe reins to become entangled, that passion riding through the woods inhunting costume, in broad daylight, with such contempt of publicopinion, would have sufficed to betray the duke and Felicia, even thoughthe haughty and fascinating appearance of the Amazon, and the high-bredease of her companion, his pallid cheeks slightly flushed by theexercise and Jenkins' miraculous pearls, had not already led to theirrecognition.

  It was not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora in the Bois on Sunday.He, like his master, loved to show himself to the Parisians, to keep hispopularity alive in all public places; and then the duchess neveraccompanied him on that day, and he could draw rein without restraint atthe little chalet of Saint-James, known to all Par
is, whose pink turretspeering out among the trees school-boys pointed out to one another withwhispered comments. But only a madwoman, a shameless creature like thatFelicia, would advertise herself thus, destroy her reputation forever.The sound of hoofs and of rustling bushes dying away in the distance,bent weeds standing erect, branches thrust aside resuming theirplaces--that was all that remained of the apparition.

  "Did you see?" Paul was the first to ask.

  She had seen and she had understood, despite her virtuous innocence, fora blush overspread her features, caused by the shame we feel for thesins of those we love.

  "Poor Felicia!" she whispered, pitying not only the poor abandonedcreature who had passed before them, but him as well whom that fall fromgrace was certain to strike full in the heart. The truth is that Paul deGery was in no wise surprised by that meeting, which confirmed someprevious suspicions and the instinctive repulsion he had felt for theseductive creature at their dinner-party some days before. But it seemedsweet to him to be pitied by Aline, to feel her sympathy in theincreased tenderness of her voice, in the arm that leaned more heavilyupon his. Like children who play at being ill for the joy of beingpetted by their mothers, he allowed the comforter to do her utmost tosoothe his disappointment, to talk to him of his brothers, of the Nabob,and of the impending journey to Tunis, a beautiful country, so it wassaid. "You must write to us often, and write long letters about theinteresting things you see and about the place you live in. For we cansee those who are far away from us better when we can form an idea oftheir surroundings."--Chatting thus, they reached the end of the shadypath, at a vast clearing where the tumult of the Bois was in full blast,carriages and equestrians alternating, and the crowd tramping in afleecy dust which gave it, at that distance, the appearance of adisorderly flock of sheep. Paul slackened his pace, emboldened by thatlast moment of solitude.

  "Do you know what I am thinking?" he said, taking Aline's hand; "thatany one would enjoy being unhappy for the sake of being comforted byyou. But, precious as your sympathy is to me, I cannot allow you toexpend your emotion upon an imaginary grief. No, my heart is not broken,but, on the contrary, more alive, more vigorous than before. And if Ishould tell you what miracle has preserved it, what talisman--"

  He placed before her eyes a little oval frame surrounding a profilewithout shading, a simple pencil sketch in which she recognized herself,surprised to find that she was so pretty, as if reflected in the magicmirror of Love. Tears came to her eyes, although she knew not why,--anopen spring whose pulsing flood caused her chaste heart to beat fast.

  "This portrait belongs to me. It was made for me. But now, as I am onthe point of going away, I am assailed by a scruple. I prefer not tokeep it except from your own hands. So take it, and if you find aworthier friend, one who loves you with a deeper, truer love than mine,I authorize you to give it to him."

  She had recovered from her confusion, and replied, looking de Gery inthe face with affectionate gravity:

  "If I listened to nothing but my heart, I should not hesitate to answeryou; for, if you love me as you say you do, I am sure that I love you noless. But I am not free, I am not alone in life,--look!"

  She pointed to her father and sisters who were motioning to them in thedistance and hurrying to overtake them.

  "Even so! And I?" said Paul eagerly. "Have I not the same duties, thesame burdens? We are like two widowed heads of families. Will you notlove mine as dearly as I love yours?"

  "Do you mean it? Is it true? You will let me stay with them? I shall beAline to you and still be Grandmamma to all our children? Oh! then,"said the dear creature, beaming with joy and radiance, "then here is mypicture, I give it to you. And, with it, all my heart, and forever."