"I have just undertaken to tell you why the moon does not fall. Is not that true?"
"Yes."
"Well, I am obliged to tell you that it does fall."
"Ah, that is another matter!" cried Miette.
"Yes, it is another matter, as you say; and it is necessary that I should speak to you of that other matter. Without that how can I make you believe that the moon does not fall and that it does fall?"
"That would not be easy," said Miss Miette.
"Well, then, imagine a ball shot by a cannon. This ball would go forever in a straight line and with the same swiftness if it were not subject to gravity, to the attraction of the earth. This attraction forces the ball to lower itself little by little below the straight line to approach the earth. At last the time comes when the force of attraction conquers the force which shot the ball, and the latter falls to the earth. This example of the ball may be applied to the moon, which would go forever in a straight line if it were not subject to the attraction of the earth. It shoots in a straight line, ready to flee away from us; but suddenly the attraction of the earth makes itself felt. Then the moon bends downward to approach us, and the straight line which it had been ready to traverse is changed to the arc of a circle. Again the moon endeavors to depart in a straight line, but the attraction is felt again, and brings near to us our unfaithful satellite. The same phenomenon goes on forever, and the straight path which the moon intended to follow becomes a circular one. It falls in every instance towards us, but it falls with exactly the same swiftness as that with which it seeks to get away from us. Consequently it remains always at the same distance. The attraction which prevents the moon from running away may be likened to a string tied to the claws of a cockchafer. The cockchafer flies, seeking to free itself; the string pulls it back towards the child's finger; and very often the circular flight which the insect takes around the finger which holds it represents exactly the circular flight of the moon around the earth."
"But," said Miette, "is there no danger that the moon may fall some time?"
"If the moon had been closer to the earth it would have fallen long ago; but it is more than two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away, and, as I have told you, if attraction or gravity acts upon the planets, it loses its power in proportion to the distance at which they are. The same attraction which forces the moon to turn around the earth obliges the earth and the planets to turn around the sun; and the sun itself is not immovable. It flies through space like all the other stars, bearing us in its train, subject also to universal attraction."
Monsieur Roger stopped a moment, then he said,—
"And it is this great law of universal attraction, this law which governs the universe, that Newton discovered when he asked himself, 'Why does the apple fall?'"
"Still, as for me," said Miette, "I should not have had that idea at all; I should have said quietly to myself, 'The apple fell because it was ripe.'"
CHAPTER XVIII.
A MYSTERIOUS RESEMBLANCE.
The days passed by at the château of Sainte-Gemme quietly and happily. Monsieur Roger, having fulfilled his promise to give the explanation of gravity and of attraction, was careful to make no allusions to scientific matters. He thought it useful and right to let his little hearers find their own pleasures wherever they could. One afternoon he saw 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 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 album 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 attitude 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 album, 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, passed 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 grass. 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 château. 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,—
"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 Morlière? 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?"
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 attitude 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."
"Why, no, I am not. I am not ill either mentally or physically, I swear."
"Don't swear," said Monsieur Dalize; "and do me the kindness to hide yourself for some moments behind this clump of trees. I have witnesses who will convince you that I still have good eyes."
Monsieur Dalize got up, opened the door of the vestibule, and called Miette. She ran out gayly.
"What do you wish, papa?" she said.
"I want to see our friend Roger. Is he not in the parlor with you?"
"No; he always goes his own way. He does not talk to us any longer; and he has had a very funny, sad look for some time. He is not the same at all."
"Very well, my child," said Monsieur Dalize, interrupting the little girl. "Go back to the parlor and send me your brother."
Albert soon arrived.
"You wanted me, father?" said he.
"Yes; I want you to repeat to me what you told your mother this morning."
Albert thought for a moment; then he said,—
"About Monsieur Roger?"
"Yes."
"Well, I told mamma that for some time back I have heard Monsieur Roger walking all night in his room; only this evening I heard him crying."
"That is all that I wish to know, my child. You can go back again."
When Monsieur Dalize was alone, he walked around the clump of trees to rejoin Roger.
"Well," said he, softly, "you have heard. Everybody has noticed your grief. Won't you tell me now what it is that you are suffering, or what secret is torturing you?"
"Yes, I will confide this secret to you," said Monsieur Roger, "because you will understand me, and you will not laugh at your unhappy friend." And Monsieur Roger told the whole truth to his friend Dalize. He told him what a singular fixed idea had possessed his brain; he told him of the strange resemblance which he thought he had discovered between the features of his dear and regretted wife and the face of Paul Solange.
Monsieur Dalize let his friend pour out his soul to him. He said only, with pitying affection, when Monsieur Roger had finished,—
"My poor friend! it is a dream that is very near insanity."
"Alas! that is what I tell myself; and still——"
"And still?" repeated Monsieur Dalize. "You still doubt? Come with me."
He re-entered the château with Roger. When he reached the parlor he went straight to Paul Solange.
"Paul," said he, "to-morrow is the mail, and I shall write to your father."
"Ah, sir," answered Paul, "I will give you my letter; maybe you can put it in yours."
Monsieur Dalize seemed to be trying to think of something.
"How long a time is it," said he, "since I have had the pleasure of seeing your excellent father?"
"Two years, sir; but he will surely come to France this winter."
Monsieur Dalize looked at Roger; then he whispered in his ear,—
"You have heard."
CHAPTER XX.
FIRE.
Certainly Monsieur Roger had heard, certainly he tried to convince himself; but when his looks fell upon Paul, his reason forsook him and he doubted again, and even he hoped. Some days passed in a semi-sadness that made every one feel uneasy. The children, without knowing why, knew that something had happened which troubled the mutual happiness of their life. Monsieur and Madame Dalize alone understood and pitied their friend Roger. They endeavored to interest him in other things,—but Monsieur Roger refused walks, excursions, and the invitations of the neighbors. He had asked Monsieur Dalize to let him alone for a while, as he felt the need of solitude.
One morning Albert said to his father,—
"Father, Paul and I wish to go with a fishing-party to the farm, as we did last year. Will you allow us to do so?"
"Yes," answered Monsieur Dalize; "but on one condition."
"What is it?"
"That you take Monsieur Roger with you."
Albert looked at his father, and answered,—
"Then you refuse?"
"Why, no,—I only make that condition."
"Yes, father; but as we cannot fulfil the condition, it is equal to a refusal."
"Why cannot you fulfil it? What is there so difficult about it?"
"You know as well as I, my dear father, Monsieur Roger has been for some time very sad, very preoccupied; he wants to remain by himself, and consequently he will refuse to go to the farm."
"Who knows?"
"Well, at all events, I would not dare to ask him."
"Well, then, let Paul do it."
"But what would Paul say?"
"He will say that I am detained here, that I cannot come with you, and that, not thinking it prudent to allow you to go fishing alone, I object to it unless Monsieur Roger will consent to take my place."
"Very well, father," said Albert, in a disappointed tone. "We will see whether Paul succeeds; but I am afraid he will not."
But Paul did succeed. Monsieur Roger could not resist the request so pleasantly made by the boy. That evening, after dinner, they left home to sleep at the farm, which was situated on the borders of the River Yonne. They had to get up at daybreak in order to begin their fishing. The farmers gave up to Monsieur Roger the only spare room they had in the house. Albert and Paul had to sleep in what they called the turret. This turret, the last mossy vestige of the feudal castle, whose very windows were old loop-holes, now furnished with panes of glass, stood against one end of the farm-house. It was divided into three stories: the first story was a place where they kept hay and straw; in the second there slept a young farm-boy; the higher story was reserved for another servant, who was just now absent.
"In war we must do as the warriors do," cried Albert, gayly; "besides, we have not so long to sleep. You may take whichever room you like the best."
"I will take the highest story, if you are willing," answered Paul; "the view must be beautiful."
"Oh, the view! through the loop-holes and their blackened glasses! However, you can climb up on the old platform of the turret if you wish. It is covered with zinc, like the roof of an ordinary house; but, all the same, one can walk upon it. Come, I will show it to you."
The wooden staircase was easily ascended by the boys. When they had reached the room which Paul was to occupy, Albert pointed his hand towards the ceiling and made Paul remark a large bolt.
"See," said he: "you have only to get upon a chair to draw this bolt and to push the trap-door, which gives admission to the turret. On the roof you will, in fact, see a beautiful view."
"I shall do that to-morrow morning, when I get up," answered Paul.
Albert, after he had said good-night to his friend, descended the staircase and slept in the bed which the farm-boy had yielded to him; the latter was to spend the night upon a bed of hay in the first story.
A distant clock in the country had struck twelve. Monsieur Roger had opened the window of his room, and, being unable to sleep, was thinking, still the prey to the fixed idea, still occupied by the strange resemblance; and now the two names of Paul and George mingled together in his mind and were applied only to the one and the same dear being. Suddenly the odor of smoke came to him, brought on the breeze. In the cloudy night he saw nothing, and still the smoke grew more and more distinct. Every one was asleep at the farm: no light was burning, no sound was heard. Monsieur Roger bent over the window-sill and looked uneasily around him. The loop-holes of the lower story of the turret were illuminated; then sparks escaped from it, soon followed by jets of flame. At the same instant the wooden door which opened into the yard was violently burst open, and Monsieur Roger saw two young people in their night-gowns fleeing together and crying with a loud voice. This was all so quick that Monsieur Roger had had neither the time nor the thought of calling for help. A spasm of fear had seized him, which was calmed, now that Paul and Albert were safe; but the alarm had been given, and the farm-hands had awakened. But what help could they expect? The nearest village was six miles off; the turret would be burned before the engines could arrive. Monsieur Roger had run out with the others to witness this fire which they could not extinguish. He held Albert in his arms, embraced him, and said to him,—
"But, tell me, where is Paul?"
Albert looked around him.
"He must be here,—unless fright has made him run away."
"No, he is not here. But you are sure that he ran out of the tower, are you not?"
"Certainly, since it was he who came and shook me in my bed while I was asleep."
At this moment a young boy in a night-gown came out of the crowd, and, approaching Albert, said,—
"No; it was I, sir, who shook you."
Monsieur Roger looked at the boy who had just spoken, and he felt a horrible fear take possession of him. He saw that it was the farm-boy. It must have been he whom he had seen fleeing a moment before with Albert. But Paul? Had he remained in the turret? And the flames which licked the walls had almost reached the floor where Paul was sleeping. Was the poor boy still asleep? Had he heard nothing?
"A ladder!" cried Monsieur Roger, with a cry of fear and despair.
The ladder was immediately brought; but it was impossible to place it against the turret, whose base was in flames.
Monsieur Roger in a second had examined the battlements which composed the roof. He ran towards the farm-house, climbed up the staircase to the top story, opened a trap-door, and found himself upon the roof. Crawling on his hands and knees, following the ridge of the roof, he reached the turret, and found himself even with the story where Paul Solange was asleep. The loop-hole was before him. With a blow of his elbow he broke the glass; then he cried,—
"Paul! Paul!"
Below the people looked at him in mournful silence. No reply came from the room; he could see nothing through the darkness. Monsieur Roger had a gleam of hope: Paul must have escaped. But a sheet of fire higher than the others threw a sudden light through the loop-hole on the other side.
Monsieur Roger was seized with indescribable anguish. Paul Solange was there in his bed. Was he asleep? Monsieur Roger cried out anew with all his force. Paul remained motionless. Then Monsieur Roger leaned over the roof, and said to the people below,—
"Cry at the top of your voices! Make a noise!"
But the next moment he made a sign to them to be silent,—for Monsieur Roger had felt somebody crawling behind him, somebody who had followed his perilous path. It was Albert Dalize.
"Oh, my friend,—my poor friend!" cried Monsieur Roger; "what can we do? Is it not enough to make you crazy? See! the staircase is in flames. You can hardly pass your arm through the loop-holes. Whether he wakes or not, he is lost." And then he said, with an awful gravity, "Then, it is better he should not awake."
"No," replied Albert, quickly; "there is an opening at the top of the tower."
"There is an opening?"
"Yes, a trap-door, which I showed him only a little while ago, before we went to sleep."
Monsieur Roger raised himself upon the roof to a standing position.
"What are you doing?" cried Albert.
"I am going to try to reach the top of the tower."
"It is useless; the bolt opens in the room. Paul only can open it."
"Paul can open it."
"If he awakes. But how is it he does not awake?"
And in his turn Albert called to his friend.
Paul made no movement. The flames were gaining, growing more and more light, and the smoke was filtering through the plank floor and filling the room.
"Ah, I understand," cried Monsieur Roger, "I understand: he is not sleeping. That is not sleep,—that is asphyxia."
"Asphyxia?" repeated Albert, in a voice choked with fear.
The scene was terrible. There was the boy, a prisoner, who was going to die under the eyes of those who loved him, and separated from them solely by a circle of stone and of fire,—a circle which they could not cross. He was going to die without any knowledge that he was dying. Asphyxia held him in a death-like trance. Albert saw the floor of the room crack and a tongue of flame shoot up, which lighted up the sleeping face of Paul Solange. Then he heard a strange cry from a terrified and awful voice. The voice cried,—
"George! George!"
And it was Monsieur Roger who had twice called that name.
CHAPTER XXI.
SAVED.
Albert still looked. Then he saw Paul Solange raise himself upon his bed, and, seeing the fire, pass his hands over his eyes and his forehead, jump to the floor, reflect a moment, as if endeavoring to remember something, then seize a chair, get upon it, and pull the bolt of the trap-door. At the same time he remarked that Monsieur Roger was no longer near him. Braving the danger, Monsieur Roger had jumped from the roof, and succeeded in reaching the top of the turret; and now it was he who pulled Paul from the trap-door and gathered him up in his arms. The boy had fainted. Obeying an order shouted by Albert, two farm-boys trusted themselves upon the roof, bringing with them a ladder and ropes. Then Monsieur Roger was able to come down with his precious burden.
Albert lent his aid to the rescuer, and Paul was taken down into the yard. At this moment a carriage arrived, which had been driving at the top of its speed. It stopped at the door of the farm-house. Monsieur Dalize appeared. From the château the flames had been seen by a watchman, who had gone to awake his master. Monsieur Dalize, understanding the danger, frightened at what might be happening over there in that farm-house on fire, under that roof which sheltered his child, his best friend, and Paul Solange, had immediately harnessed a horse, with the aid of the watchman, and, telling him to say nothing to Madame Dalize, had departed at the top of his speed. He arrived in time to see Monsieur Roger and Albert, who were bearing Paul with them. He approached, trembling.
"Paul!" he cried.
"Calm yourself," Monsieur Roger hastened to say: "he has only fainted. It is nothing; but we shall have to take him home."
"The carriage is ready."
"Then everything is for the best."
Paul was seated in the carriage, between Albert and Monsieur Roger. The latter had placed his left arm under Paul's head to sustain him. The poor child was still insensible; but there could be no better remedy for him than the fresh air of the night,—the fresh air which the rapid movement of the carriage caused to penetrate into his lungs. Monsieur Dalize, who drove, turned around frequently, looking at Roger. The latter held in his right hand Paul Solange's hand, and from time to time placed his ear against the boy's breast.
"Well?" said Monsieur Dalize, anxiously.
"His pulse is still insensible," answered Monsieur Roger; "but stop your horse for a moment."
The carriage stopped. Then, being no longer interfered with by the noise, Monsieur Roger again applied his ear, and said,—
"His heart beats; it beats very feebly, but it beats. Now go ahead."
Again the carriage started. At the end of some minutes, Monsieur Roger, who still held Paul's wrist between his fingers, suddenly felt beneath the pulsations of the radial artery. He cried out, with a loud voice, but it was a cry of joy,—
"He is saved!" he said to Monsieur Dalize.
At that very moment Paul Solange opened his eyes; but he closed them again, as if a heavy sleep, stronger than his will, were weighing upon his eyelids. Again he opened them, and looked with an undecided look, without understanding. At that moment they arrived at the house. Everybody was on foot. The fire at the farm had been perceived by others besides the watchman. They had all risen from their beds, and Madame Dalize, awakened by the noise, had, unfortunately, learned the terrible news. She was awaiting in cruel agony the return of her husband. At last she saw him driving the carriage and bringing with him the beings who were dear to her. Paul, leaning on the arms of Monsieur Roger and Albert, was able to cross the slight distance which separated them from the vestibule. There Monsieur Roger made him sit down in an arm-chair, near the window, which he opened wide. Monsieur and Madame Dalize and Albert stood beside Paul, looking at him silently and uneasily; but they were reassured by the expression of Monsieur Roger. With common accord they left him the care of his dear patient. Monsieur Roger was looking at Paul with tender eyes,—an expression of happiness, of joy, illumined his face: and this expression, which Monsieur Dalize had not seen for long years upon the face of his friend, seemed to him incomprehensible, for he was still ignorant of the extraordinary thing that had happened. At this moment, Miss Miette, in her night-cap, hardly taking time to dress herself, rushed into the vestibule. Her childish sleep had been interrupted by the tumult in the house. She had run down half awake.
"Mamma, Mamma," she cried, "what is the matter?"
Then, as she ran to throw herself upon her mother's knees, she saw the arm-chair and Paul sitting in it. She stopped at once, and, before they had the time or the thought of stopping her, she had taken Paul's hands, saying to him, very sadly,—
"Paul, Paul, are you sick?"
Paul's eyes, which until this time had remained clouded and as if fixed upon something which he could not see, turned to Miette. Little by little they brightened as his senses returned to him: his eyes commenced to sparkle. He looked, and, with a soft but weary voice, he murmured,—
"Miette, my little Miette."
Then he turned his head, trying to find out where it was he found himself, who were the people around him.
"What has happened?" he asked.
Nobody dared to answer. Everybody waited for Monsieur Roger; but Monsieur Roger kept silent. He let nature take care of itself. Indeed, he even hid himself slightly behind Monsieur Dalize. Paul's looks passed over the faces which were in front or beside him; but they did not stop there: they seemed to look for something or some one which they did not meet. Then, with a sudden movement, Paul bent over a little. He saw Monsieur Roger; he started; the blood came back to his face; he tried to speak, and could only let fall a few confused words. But, though they could not understand his words, what they did understand was his gesture. He held out his arms towards Monsieur Roger. The latter advanced and clasped Paul Solange in a fatherly embrace.
The effort made by the sick boy had wearied him. He closed his eyes in sleep; but this time it was a healthy sleep, a refreshing sleep.
Monsieur Roger and Monsieur Dalize took the sleeping Paul up to his room. And Miss Miette, as she regained her boudoir, said to herself, with astonishment,—
"It is extraordinary! Monsieur Roger embraced Paul as if he were his papa."
CHAPTER XXII.
GEORGE! GEORGE!
Monsieur Roger stayed up all the remainder of that night by the side of Paul, whose sleep was calm and dreamless, like the sleep which succeeds to some strong emotion, some great fatigue. Paul was still sleeping in the morning when Monsieur Dalize softly turned the handle of the door and entered the room on tiptoe. His entrance was made with so much precaution that Monsieur Roger himself did not hear him.
Monsieur Dalize had some seconds in which to observe Roger. He saw him sitting beside the bed, his eyes fixed upon the child, in a thoughtful attitude. Monsieur Roger was studying the delicate face which lay upon the pillow. He examined its features one by one, and, thinking himself alone, thinking that he would not be interrupted in this examination, he was calling up the mysterious resemblance with which he had already acquainted his friend. But he had not just now begun this study,—he had pursued it all night. The light, however, of the lowered lamp had not been favorable, and the emotion which he felt agitated him still too much to leave his judgment clear. When the morning sun had risen, chasing away all the vague images of the darkness and the doubts of the mind. Roger, having recovered his composure, looked at the child whom he had saved, and asked himself if the child was not his own. He was drawn from these reflections by feeling himself touched upon the shoulder. Monsieur Dalize had approached and asked,—
"Has he passed a good night?"
"Excellent," answered Monsieur Roger, in a low tone; "but we must let him sleep as long as he can. Give orders that no noise shall be made around here and that no one shall enter. He must awake of his own accord. When he awakes he will only feel a slight fatigue."
"Then I am going to give these orders and tell the good news," said Monsieur Dalize.
He retired as softly as he had entered, but by accident, near the door, he stumbled against a chair. He stopped, holding his breath; but Roger made a sign that he could go on. The slight noise had not awakened Paul, or at least had not awakened him completely; he had turned around upon his bed for the first time since he had been placed there. Monsieur Roger, who never took his eyes off him, understood that he was dreaming. The dream seemed to be a painful one, for some feeble groans and murmurs escaped him. Then upon the face of the sleeping child appeared an expression of great fear. Monsieur Roger did not wish to leave Paul a prey to such a dream. He approached near to raise him a little upon the bed. The moment that Monsieur Roger's two hands softly touched Paul's head, the expression of fear disappeared, the features became quiet and calm, the groans ceased, and suddenly there escaped his lips the single word "Papa."
Monsieur Roger started. With his trembling hands he still sustained the child; he bent over, ready to embrace him, forgetting that the child was sleeping and dreaming. Monsieur Roger was about to utter the name which choked him,—"My son."
Then Paul Solange opened his eyes. He looked up dreamily; then he recognized the face before him, and surprise mingled with affection in his tones.
"Monsieur Roger!" he said.
He looked around him, saw that he was in his own room, and remembered nothing else. He asked,—
"Why are you here, Monsieur Roger?"
Mastering himself, Monsieur Roger answered that he had come to find out how Paul was, as he had seen him suffering the night before.
"I, suffering?" asked Paul. Then he sought to remember, and, all of a sudden, he cried, "The fire over there at the farm!"
Although his memory had not entirely returned, he recollected something. He hesitated to speak. Then, with an anxious voice, he asked,—
"And Albert?"
"Albert," answered Monsieur Roger, "he is below; and everybody is waiting until you come down to breakfast."
"Then there were no accidents?"
"No."
"How fortunate! I will dress myself and be down in a minute."
And, in fact, in a few minutes Paul was ready, and descended leaning on Monsieur Roger's arm.
The latter, as they entered the dining-room, made a sign to them that they should all keep silence: he did not wish that they should fatigue the tired mind of the child with premature questions; but when they were sitting at the table, Paul, addressing Albert, said,—
"Tell me what passed last night. It is strange I scarcely remember."
"No," said Madame Dalize: "we are at table for breakfast, and we have all need for food,—you, Paul, above all. Come, now, let us eat; a little later we may talk."
"It is well said," said Monsieur Dalize.
There was nothing to do but to obey. And, indeed, Paul was glad to do so, for he was very hungry. He had lost so much strength that the stomach for the moment was more interesting to him than the brain. They breakfasted, and then they went out upon the lawn before the château, under a large walnut-tree, which every day gave its hospitable shade to the Dalize family and their guests.
"Well, my dear Paul," said Monsieur Dalize, "how are you at present?"
"Very well, indeed, sir, very well," answered Paul. "I was a little feeble when I first awoke, but now,—now——"
He stopped speaking; he seemed lost in thought.
"What is the matter?" asked Albert.
"I am thinking of last night at the farm,—the fire."
"Oh, that was nothing," said Albert.
"But," continued Paul, "how did we get back here?"
"In the carriage. Father came for us and brought us home."
"And how did we leave the farm?"
Monsieur Roger followed with rapt attention the workings of Paul's memory. He was waiting in burning anxiety the moment when Paul should remember. One principal fact, only one thing occupied his attention. Would Paul remember how and by whom he had been borne from the torpor which was strangling him? Would he remember that cry,—that name which had had the miraculous power to awake him, to bring him back to life? If Paul remembered that, then, perhaps—— And again Monsieur Roger was a prey to his fixed idea,—to his stroke of folly, as Monsieur Dalize called it.
The latter, besides, knew nothing as yet, and Monsieur Roger counted upon the sudden revelation of this extraordinary fact to shake his conviction. But Paul had repeated his question. He asked,—
"How did we leave the farm-house? How were we saved?"
And as Albert did not know whether he should speak, whether he should tell everything, Paul continued:
"But speak, explain to me: I am trying to find out. I cannot remember; and that gives me pain here." And he touched his head.
Monsieur Roger made a sign to Albert, and the latter spoke:
"Well, do you remember the turret, where we had our rooms? You slept above, I below. Do you remember the trap-door that I showed you? In the middle of the night I felt myself awakened by somebody, and I followed him. In my half sleep I thought that this some one was you, my poor friend; but, alas! you remained above; you were sleeping without fear. Why, it was Monsieur Roger who first saw the danger that you were in."
Paul, while Albert was speaking, had bent his head, seeking in his memory and beginning to put in order his scattered thoughts. When Albert pronounced the name of Monsieur Roger, Paul raised his eyes towards him with a look which showed that he would soon remember.
"And afterwards?" said he.
"And afterwards Monsieur Roger climbed upon the roof, at the risk of his life, and reached the loop-hole which opened into your chamber. He broke the glass of the window; but you did not hear him: the smoke which was issuing through the floor had made you insensible,—had almost asphyxiated you."
"Ah, I remember!" cried Paul. "I was sleeping, and, at the same time, I was not sleeping. I knew that I was exposed to some great danger, but I had not the strength to make a movement. I seemed paralyzed. I heard cries and confused murmurs, sounds of people coming and going. I felt that I ought to rise and flee, but that was impossible. My arms, my legs would not obey me; my eyelids, which I attempted to open, were of lead. I soon thought that everything was finished, that I was lost; and still I was saying to myself that I might be raised out of this stupor. It seemed to me that the efforts of some one outside might be so, that an order, a prayer might give back to my will the power which it had lost; but the stupor took hold of me more and more intensely. I was going to abandon myself to it, when, all of a sudden, I heard myself called. Yes, somebody called me; but not in the same way that I have been called before. In that cry there was such a command, such a prayer, so much faith, that my will at once recovered strength to make my body obey it. I roused myself; I saw and I understood, and, luckily, I remembered the trap-door which you had shown me. I could scarcely lift it; but there was some one there,—yes, some one who saved me."
Paul Solange uttered a great cry.
"Ah," said he, "it was Monsieur Roger!" And he ran to throw himself into the arms which Monsieur Roger extended to him.
Miss Miette profited by the occasion to wipe her eyes, which this scene had filled with big tears in spite of herself. Then she turned to Paul, and said,—
"But the one who called to you? Was it true? It was not a dream?"
"Oh, no; it was some one. But who was it?"
"It was Monsieur Roger," answered Albert.
"And so you understood him?" continued Miette, very much interested. "And he called you loudly by your name, 'Paul! Paul!'"
Paul Solange did not answer. This question had suddenly set him to thinking. No, he had not heard himself called thus. But how had he been called?
Seeing that Paul was silent, Albert answered his little sister's question:
"Certainly," said he, "he called Paul by his name."
Then he interrupted himself, and, remembering all of a sudden:
"No," cried he; "Monsieur Roger called out another name."
"What other name?" asked Monsieur Dalize, much surprised.
"He cried out, 'George! George!'"
Monsieur Dalize turned his head towards Roger and saw the eyes of his friend fixed upon his own. He understood at once. Poor Roger was still a slave to the same thought, the same illusion.
Madame Dalize and Miette, who were acquainted with the sorrows of Monsieur Roger, imagined that in this moment of trouble he had in spite of himself called up the image of his child. Paul, very gravely, was dreamily saying to himself that the name of George was the name which he had heard, and that it was to the sound of this name that he had answered, and he was asking himself the mysterious reason for such a fact.