The Girls Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 357, October 30, 1886 | Page 3

really must have been mad, Arnaud, to dream of such a thing as
entrusting Léon, of all people in the world, with an infant," said the old
baroness, for once taking the part of her daughter-in-law against her
son.
Père Yvon said nothing just then; it would not have been wise to have
done so while the baron's temper was ruffled by the criticisms of his
family or in their presence, but when he was alone with Arnaud, Père
Yvon spoke his mind pretty freely, and read the baron a severer lecture
than he had ever done all the years he was under his tuition.
It was nothing but jealousy which had prompted such a mad, cruel act,
and jealousy of the most unreasonable--he might almost say
unpardonable--kind: a father to be jealous of his wife's love for his own
child! There was a German saying, excellent in the original, but which
lost the double play upon the words in the translation which Père Yvon
quoted to the baron--
"Die Eifersucht ist eine Leidenschaft, Der mit Eifer sucht muss Leiden
schaffen,"
which means, freely translated, that jealousy is a passion which brings
misery to him who indulges in it; and Père Yvon impressed upon
Arnaud that if any misfortune happened to the baby, he would have no
one to blame but himself, for though all sins bring their own
punishment, jealousy is undoubtedly one that can never be indulged in
with impunity. This, and much more to the same effect, Père Yvon said,
and the baron, lying in an easy chair, listened patiently enough, partly
because he was very fond of the chaplain, and partly because he was so
angry with himself now for his folly that it was a relief to him to be
blamed roundly for it.
All that day the baroness wandered about the house in a vague, restless
way, unable to settle to anything, and trying to amuse herself by
consulting with the nurse as to how they should go and fetch the baby
back when they discovered where it was. She ate little or nothing, and

after another sleepless night looked so worn and ill that the baron sent
for a doctor, who came and urged strongly that the baby should be sent
for at once, or he would not be answerable for the consequences; the
suspense and anxiety were telling so on the baroness that if the strain
lasted much longer he feared she would have an attack of brain fever.
On hearing this the baron was dreadfully alarmed, and telegraphed to
Léon's agent at Havre to let him know immediately he heard from M.
Léon de Thorens, who had sailed two nights before in the Hirondelle
for a cruise in the Channel. The agent telegraphed back that he knew no
more than M. le Baron at present, but so soon as he received any
further information he would let the baron know. This did not reassure
the baroness, who had taken it into her head that something had
happened to the yacht, and not all Arnaud's promises that the moment
he knew where the child was he would go himself and bring her back
could comfort the poor, anxious little mother, who, with pale cheeks
and black marks round her great brown eyes, which were always large
but looked bigger than ever now that they had not been closed since the
baby left, wandered about the château, looking like a picture of despair.
This lasted for nearly a week, and then came a telegram from the agent
to say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off the east coast of England
with all hands drowned. The baron was alone when the telegram was
handed to him, and the news was such a shock to him that he read the
message over again and again before the words, though they were burnt
indelibly into his brain, conveyed their full meaning to his mind.
Slowly he grasped the terrible truth; poor Léon, the life of the house,
wild, handsome Léon was drowned, and his own poor innocent baby as
well, drowned, and by his fault. He was little better than a murderer, he
thought, in the first outburst of his grief, and he must tell Mathilde, and
perhaps kill her too. How should he ever have the courage to do this?
Strange to say, though perhaps, after all, it was not strange, the baron
was far more cut up at the sad fate of his little girl, whom, a few days
ago, he had been so anxious to get rid of, for a while, at least, than he
was at the news of poor Léon's death. So much hung on the baby;
Mathilde's life might almost be said to depend upon its recovery, and
now