‘Yes, father.’

‘You swear?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I beg you, I beseech you, don’t forget. I am set on it.’

‘No, father.’

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

‘Yes, father.’

‘And then you will see—you will see what she will explain to you. I can tell you no more. Is it an oath?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Good, my son. Kiss me. Good-bye. I’m going to slip off, I’m sure of it. Tell them to come in.’

Hautot Junior kissed his father, groaning, then, always obedient, opened the door, and the priest appeared, in his white surplice, carrying the sacred 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 do no more. Besides, he felt his heart at ease now, he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to confess to the delegate of God, since he had just confessed to his son, who was one of his own family!

He was given the sacrament, purified, absolved, amid his friends and servants on their knees, without a single movement of his face showing that he was still alive.

He died about midnight, after four hours of shudders that indicated atrocious sufferings.

II

It was Tuesday when he was buried, the hunting having been opened on Sunday. Returned to his house, after having conducted his father to the cemetery, Cæsar Hautot passed the rest of the day in weeping. He hardly slept the following night, and he felt so sad when he woke, that he asked himself how he could go on living.

All day long till evening, however, he thought that to obey his father’s last wishes, he ought to go to Rouen next day, and see this girl, Caroline Donet, 18 Rue de l’Éperlan, third floor, the second door. He had repeated, under his breath, as a child does a prayer, this name and this address, an incalculable number of times, so that he would not forget them, and he finished by babbling them indefinitely, without being able to stop or to think of anything at all, his tongue and his mind were so obsessed by these phrases.

The next day, then, about eight o’clock, he told them to harness Graindorge to the tilbury, and set out, at the heavy Norman horse’s full trot, on the high road from Ainville to Rouen. He wore on his back his black frockcoat, on his head his tall silk hat, and on his legs his strapped trousers, and he had not chosen, considering the circumstances, to wear on top of his fine suit the blue blouse which balloons out in the wind, protects the cloth from dust and stains, and is taken off quickly on arrival, as soon as you jump out of the carriage.