LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Yes, father."

      "I tell you that she is an honest girl, and that, but for you, and the remembrance of your mother, and again but for the house in which we three lived, I would have brought her here, and then married her, for certain--listen--listen, my lad. I might have made a will--I haven't done so. I did not wish to do so--for it is not necessary to write down things--things of this sort--it is too hurtful to the legitimate children--and then it embroils everything--it ruins everyone! Look you, the stamped paper, there's no need of it--never make use of it. If I am rich, it is because I have not made waste of what I have during my own life. You understand, my son?"

      "Yes, father."

      "Listen again--listen well to me! So then, I have made no will--I did not desire to do so--and then I knew what you were; you have a good heart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way; I said to myself that when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and that I would beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again! When I am gone, make your way to the place at once--and make such arrangements that she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of means. I leave it to you--I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find her at home every day in the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go there on a Thursday. That is the day she expects me. It has been my day for the past six years. Poor little thing! she will weep!--I say all this to you because I have known you so well, my son. One does not tell these things in public either to the notary or to the priest. They happen--everyone knows that--but they are not talked about, save in case of necessity. Then there is no outsider in the secret, nobody except the family, because the family consists of one person alone. You understand?"

      "Yes, father."

      "Do you promise?"

      "Yes, father."

      "Do you swear it?"

      "Yes, father."

      "I beg of you, I implore of you, so do not forget. I bind you to it."

      "No, father."

      "You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything."

      "Yes, father."

      "And, then, you will see--you will see what she will explain to you. As for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it."

      "Yes, father."

      "That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm sure. Tell them they may come in."

      Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice, carrying the holy oils.

      But the dying man had closed his eyes and he refused to open them again, he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that he understood.

      He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he now felt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to make a confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to his son, who constituted his own family?

      He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst of his friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any movement of his face indicating that he still lived.

      He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements, which showed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments.

      II.

      It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him; the shooting had opened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied his father to the cemetery, C?sar Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad on awakening that he asked himself how he could go on living.

      However, he kept thinking until evening that, in order to obey the last wish of his father, he ought to repair to Rouen next day, and see this girl Catholine Donet, who resided in the Rue d'Eperlan in the third story, second door. He had repeated to himself in a whisper, just as a little boy repeats a prayer, this name and address a countless number of times, so that he might not forget them, and he ended by lisping them continually, without being able to stop or to think of what they were, so much were his tongue and his mind possessed by the commission.

      Accordingly, on the following day, about eight o'clock, he ordered Graindorge to be yoked to the tilbury, and set forth at the quick trotting pace of the heavy Norman horse, along the highroad from Ainville to Rouen. He wore his black frock-coat, a tall silk hat on his head, and breeches with straps; and he did not, on account of the occasion, dispense with the handsome costume, the blue overalls which swelled in the wind, protecting the cloth from dust and from stains, and which was to be removed quickly the moment he jumped out of the coach.

      He entered Rouen accordingly just as it was striking ten o'clock, drew up, as he had usually done, at the H?tel des Bon-Enfants, in the Rue des Trois-Marcs, submitted to the hugs of the landlord and his wife and their five children, for they had heard the melancholy news. After that, he had to tell them all the particulars about the accident, which caused him to shed tears, to repel all the proffered attentions which they sought to thrust upon him merely because he was wealthy, and to decline even the breakfast they wanted him to partake of, thus wounding their sensibilities.

      Then, having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and removed the mud stains from his boots, he set forth in search of the Rue d'Eperlan, without venturing to make inquiries from anyone, for fear of being recognized and arousing suspicions.

      At length, being unable to find the place, he saw a priest passing by, and, trusting to the professional discretion which churchmen possess, he questioned the ecclesiastic.

      He had only a hundred steps farther to go; it was exactly the second street to the right.

      Then he hesitated. Up to that moment, he had obeyed, like a mere animal, the expressed wish of the deceased. Now he felt quite agitated, confused, humiliated, at the idea of finding himself--the son--in the presence of this woman who had been his father's mistress. All the morality which lies buried in our breasts, heaped up at the bottom of our sensuous emotions by centuries of hereditary instruction, all that he had been taught, since he had learned his catechism, about creatures of evil life, the instinctive contempt which every man entertains for them, even though he may marry one of them, all the narrow honesty of the peasant in his character, was stirred up within him and held him back, making him grow red with shame.

      But he said to himself:

      "I promised the father, I must not break my promise."

      Then he gave a push to the door of the house bearing the number 18, which stood ajar, discovered a gloomy-looking staircase, ascended three flights, perceived a door, then a second door, came upon the string of a bell, and pulled it. The ringing, which resounded in the apartment before which he stood, sent a shiver through his frame. The door was opened, and he found himself facing a young lady very well dressed, a brunette with a fresh complexion, who gazed at him with eyes of astonishment.

      He did not know what to say to her, and she, who suspected nothing, and who was waiting for him to speak, did not invite him to come in. They stood looking thus at one another for nearly half a minute, at the end of which she said in a questioning tone:

      "You have something to tell me, Monsieur?"

      He falteringly replied:

      "I am M. Hautot's son."

      She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as if she had known him for a long time:

      "Monsieur C?sar?"

      "Yes."

      "And what next?"

      "I have come to speak to you on the part of my father."

      She articulated:

      "Oh, my God!"

      She then drew back so that

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