l them to be constantly together, as a husband
and wife must be. But now she could remember with rapture that, tortured
by foolish fears, she had watched him with trembling during their first
stay on this little estate in the Gatinais. Vain suspiciousness of love!
Each of these months of happiness had passed like a dream in the midst
of joys which never rang false. She had always seen that kind creature
with a tender smile on his lips, a smile that seemed to mirror her own.

As she called up these vivid pictures, her eyes filled with tears; she
thought she could not love him enough, and was tempted to regard her
ambiguous position as a sort of tax levied by Fate on her love. Finally,
invincible curiosity led her to wonder for the thousandth time what
events they could be that led so tender a heart as Roger's to find his
pleasure in clandestine and illicit happiness. She invented a thousand
romances on purpose really to avoid recognizing the true reason, which
she had long suspected but tried not to believe in. She rose, and
carrying the baby in her arms, went into the dining-room to superintend
the preparations for dinner.

It was the 6th of May 1822, the anniversary of the excursion to the Park
of Saint-Leu, which had been the turning-point of her life; each year it
had been marked by heartfelt rejoicing. Caroline chose the linen to
be used, and arranged the dessert. Having attended with joy to these
details, which touched Roger, she placed the infant in her pretty cot
and went out on to the balcony, whence she presently saw the carriage
which her friend, as he grew to riper years, now used instead of the
smart tilbury of his youth. After submitting to the first fire of
Caroline's embraces and the kisses of the little rogue who addressed
him as papa, Roger went to the cradle, looked at his little sleeping
daughter, kissed her forehead, and then took out of his pocket a
document covered with black writing.

"Caroline," said he, "here is the marriage portion of Mademoiselle
Eugenie de Bellefeuille."

The mother gratefully took the paper, a deed of gift of securities in
the State funds.

"Buy why," said she, "have you given Eugenie three thousand francs a
year, and Charles no more than fifteen hundred?"

"Charles, my love, will be a man," replied he. "Fifteen hundred francs
are enough for him. With so much for certain, a man of courage is above
poverty. And if by chance your son should turn out a nonentity, I do
no