"But you forget ... you forget... ."

"What?"

"Your past... ."

"She will forget it too. She will understand that I am no longer the man I was, that I do not wish to be."

"Then, really, what you wish is that she should share your life, the life of Lupin?"

"The life of the man that I shall be, of the man who will work so that she may be happy, so that she may marry according to her inclination. We will settle down in some nook or other. We will struggle together, side by side. And you know what I am capable of... ."

She repeated, slowly, with her eyes fixed on his:

"Then, really, you wish her to share Lupin's life?"

He hesitated a second, hardly a second, and declared, plainly:

"Yes, yes, I wish it, I have the right."

"You wish her to abandon all the children to whom she has devoted herself, all this life of work which she loves and which is essential to her happiness?"

"Yes, I wish it, it is her duty."

The old woman opened the window and said:

"In that case, call her."

Genevieve was in the garden, sitting on a bench. Four little girls were crowding round her. Others were playing and running about.

He saw her full-face. He saw her grave, smiling eyes. She held a flower in her hand and plucked the petals one by one and gave explanations to the attentive and eager children. Then she asked them questions. And each answer was rewarded with a kiss to the pupil.

Lupin looked at her long, with infinite emotion and anguish. A whole leaven of unknown feelings fermented within him. He had a longing to press that pretty girl to his breast, to kiss her and tell her how he respected and loved her. He remembered the mother, who died in the little village of Aspremont, who died of grief.

"Call her," said Victoire. "Why don't you call her?"

He sank into a chair and stammered:

"I can't... . I can't do it... . I have not the right... . It is impossible... . Let her believe me dead... . That is better... ."

He wept, his shoulders shaking with sobs, his whole being overwhelmed with despair, swollen with an affection that arose in him, like those backward flowers which die on the very day of their blossoming.

The old woman knelt down beside him and, in a trembling voice, asked:

"She is your daughter, is she not?"

"Yes, she is my daughter."

"Oh, my poor boy!" she said, bursting into tears. "My poor boy! ..."

EPILOGUE

THE SUICIDE

"To horse!" said the Emperor.

He corrected himself, on seeing the magnificent ass which they brought him:

"To donkey, rather! Waldemar, are you sure this animal is quiet to ride and drive?"

"I will answer for him as I would for myself, Sire," declared the count.

"In that case, I feel safe," said the Emperor, laughing. And, turning to the officers with him, "Gentlemen, to horse!"

The market-place of the village of Capri was crowded with sight-seers, kept back by a line of Italian carabiniers, and, in the middle, all the donkeys of the place, which had been requisitioned to enable the Emperor to go over that island of wonders.

"Waldemar," said the Emperor, taking the head of the cavalcade, "what do we begin with?"

"With Tiberius's Villa, Sire."

They rode under a gateway and then followed a roughly-paved path, rising gradually to the eastern promontory of the island.

The Emperor laughed and enjoyed himself and good-humoredly chaffed the colossal Count von Waldemar, whose feet touched the ground on either side of the unfortunate donkey borne down under his weight.

In three-quarters of an hour, they arrived first at Tiberius's Leap, an enormous rock, a thousand feet high, from which the tyrant caused his victims to be hurled into the sea... .

The Emperor dismounted, walked up to the hand-rail and took a glance at the abyss. Then he went on foot to the ruins of Tiberius's Villa, where he strolled about among the crumbling halls and passages.

He stopped for a moment.

There was a glorious view of the point of Sorrento and over the whole island of Capri. The glowing blue of the sea outlined the beautiful curve of the bay; and cool perfumes mingled with the scent of the citron-trees.

"The view is finer still, Sire," said Waldemar, "from the hermit's little chapel, at the summit."

"Let us go to it."

But the hermit himself descended by a steep path. He was an old man, with a hesitating gait and a bent back. He carried the book in which travellers usually write down their impressions.

He placed the book on a stone seat.

"What am I write?" asked the Emperor.

"Your name, Sire, and the date of your visit ... and anything you please."

The Emperor took the pen which the hermit handed him and bent down to write.