"I went away from that first interview much distressed, carrying a
secret which seemed to me a heavy and cruel one; and which made me think
of the uselessness, the wickedness, the vain loves of a ruined life. But
I felt that Rovere owed truly his fortune to that girl who, the next
day after the death of the one whom she had piously attended, found
herself poor and isolated in a little house in a steep street, near the
Chateau, above Blois. I felt that, whatever this unknown father left,
ought not to go to distant relatives, who cared nothing for him; did not
even know him; were ignorant of his sufferings and perhaps even of his
existence, and who by law would inherit.

"A dying man, yes! There could be no question about it, and Dr.
Vilandry, whom I begged to accompany me to see my friend, did not hide
it from me. Rovere was dying of a kidney difficulty, which had made
rapid progress.

"It was necessary, then, since he was not alone in the world, that he
should think of the one of whom he had spoken and whom he loved.

"'For I love her, that child whom I have no right to name. I love her!
She is good, tender, admirable. If I did not see that she resembled
me--for she does resemble me--I should tell thee that she was beautiful.
I would be proud to cry aloud: "This is my daughter!" To promenade with
her on my arm--and I must hide this secret from all the world. That is
my torture! And it is the chastisement of all that has not been right in
my life. Ah! sad, unhappy loves!' That same malediction for the past
came to his lips as it had come to his thoughts. The old workman,
burdened with labor throughout the week, who could promenade on the
Boulevard de Clichy on Sunday, with his daughter on his arm, was happier
than Rovere. And--a strange thing, sentiment of shame and
remorse--feeling himself traveling fast to his last resting-place in the
cemetery, he expressed no wish to see that child, to send for her to
come from Blois under some pretext or other, easy enough to find.

"No, he experienced a fierce desire for solitude, he shrunk from an
interview, in which he feared all his grief would rush to his lips in a
torrent of words. He feared for himself, for his weakness, for the
strange feeling he experienced in his head.

"'It seems as if it oscillated upon my shoulders,' he said. 'If Marthe
came (and he repeated the name as a child would have pronounced it who
was just learning to name the letters of a word) I would