the doctor arrived, he gravely shook his head, and, turning toward young Hautot, who was sobbing on a chair:
"My poor boy," said he, "this does not look well."
But, when the dressing was finished, the wounded man moved his fingers, opened his mouth, then his eyes, cast around him troubled, haggard glances, then appeared to search about in his memory, to recollect, to understand, and he murmured:
"Ah! good God! this has done for me!"
The doctor held his hand.
"Why no, why no, some days of rest merely--it will be nothing."
Hautot returned:
"It has done for me! My stomach is split open! I know it well."
Then, all of a sudden:
"I want to talk to the son, if I have the time."
Hautot Junior, in spite of himself, shed tears, and kept repeating like a little boy:
"P'pa, p'pa, poor p'pa!"
But the father, in a firmer tone:
"Come! stop crying--this is not the time for it. I have to talk to you. Sit down there quite close to me. It will be quickly done, and I shall be more calm. As for the rest of you, kindly give me one minute."
They all went out, leaving the father and son face to face.
As soon as they were alone:
"Listen, son! you are twenty-four years; one can say things like this to you. And then there is not such mystery about these matters as we import into them. You know well that your mother has been seven years dead, isn't that so? and that I am not more than forty-five years myself, seeing that I got married at nineteen? Is not that true?"
The son faltered:
"Yes, it is true."
"So then your mother has been seven years dead, and I have remained a widower. Well! a man like me cannot remain without a wife at thirty-eight, isn't that true?"
The son replied:
"Yes, it is true."
The father, out of breath, quite pale, and his face contracted with suffering, went on:
"God! what pain I feel! Well, you understand. Man is not made to live alone, but I did not want to take a successor to your mother, since I promised her not to do so. Then--you understand?"
"Yes, father."
"So, I kept a young girl at Rouen, Rue d'Eperlan 18, in the third story, the second door,--I tell you all this, don't forget,--but a young girl, who has been very nice to me, loving, devoted, a true woman, eh? You comprehend, my lad?"
"Yes, father."
"So then, if I am carried off, I owe something to her, something substantial, that will place her in a safe position. You understand?"
"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,
