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By a singular coincidence, the flight of her boy occurred during the octave of the Epiphany, when the Church reads the history of the loss of Jesus in the temple, and it also happened that he, like the Divine Child, was twelve years of age at the time of his disappearance.
When the bitter cup of memory overflowed in them, they believed it to be a new vein which had opened in the writer's brain. Octave received, every day, congratulations upon this sadly exquisite tone of his lyre, whose vibrations surpassed in supreme intensity the sighs of Rene or Obermann's Reveries.
Bianchon, Lucien de Rubempre, Octave de Camps, the Comte de Granville, the Vicomte de Fontaine, du Bruel the vaudevillist, Andoche Finot the journalist, Derville, one of the best heads in the law courts, the Comte du Chatelet, deputy, du Tillet, banker, and several elegant young men, such as Paul de Manerville and the Vicomte de Portenduere.
"I feel that the air would do me good," she said after dinner; "shall we go to the opera, Octave? I would enjoy walking that far." "No, I will stay here; go without me." She took Smith's arm and went out. I remained alone all evening; I had paper before me, and was trying to collect my thoughts in order to write, but in vain.
Sweet P'tite Louison," said Octave. "Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her P'tite Louison:" said Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. "Bien, you should see the linen and the petticoats!" said Isidore, the humorous one of the family. "He was great she was an angel, P'tite Louison!"
Since she loves but one at a time, what does it matter whether it is during an interval of two years or in the course of a single night? Are you a man, Octave? Do you see the leaves falling from the trees, the sun rising and setting? Do you hear the ticking of the horologe of time with each pulsation of your heart?
When she awoke from this dream it was a reality; for Octave was seated by her side without her having seen him arrive, and he had taken up the scene at the piano just where it had been interrupted. She was not afraid. Her mind had reached that state of exaltation which renders imperceptible the transition from dreaming to reality.
The little play had all the modern loveliness and grace which Octave Feuillet alone can give, and it contained a lesson from which any one might profit; which was by no means always the case with Madame d'Avrigny's plays, which too often were full of risky allusions, of critical situations, and the like; likely, in short, to "sail too close to the wind," as Fred had once described them.
You remember when I was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in my path that stranger who took me away from all this? Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah! wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he followed you? Why didst thou receive him as a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, why have you loved me if all is to end thus?"
No, not though every slanderous throat shall shriek until they cannot wail an octave higher. It is not from such great men as Roberts that we hear these pitiful tales concerning those who give us battle.
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