Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself.  At the time of my father’s death he feared I would sell the property and take him to Paris.  I did not know what he had learned of my past life, but I had noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the old home, he gave me a glance that went to my heart.  One day I had a large portrait of my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the dining-room.  When Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked at the portrait and then at me; in his eyes there shone a melancholy joy that I could not fail to understand.  It seemed to say:  “What happiness!  We are to suffer here in peace!”

I gave him my hand, which he covered with tears and kisses.

He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own.  When I visited my father’s tomb in the morning I found him there watering the flowers; when he saw me he went away and returned home.  He followed me in my rambles; when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, but when I saw him trudging down the valley, wiping the sweat from his brow, I bought a small horse from a peasant and gave it to him; thus we rode through the woods together.

In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequently visited us.  My door was closed to them, although I regretted it; but I could not see any one with patience.  Some time, when sure to be free from interruption, I hoped to examine my father’s papers.  Finally Larive brought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand, spread them before me.

Upon reading the first pages I felt in my heart that vivifying freshness that characterizes the air near a lake of cool water; the sweet serenity of my father’s soul exhaled as a perfume from the dusty leaves I was unfolding.  The journal of his life lay open before me; I could count the diurnal throbbings of that noble heart.  I began to yield to the influence of a dream that was both sweet and profound, and in spite of the serious firmness of his character, I discovered an ineffable grace, the flower of kindness.  While I read, the recollection of his death mingled with the narrative of his life, I can not tell with what sadness I followed that limpid stream until its waters mingled with those of the ocean.

“Oh! just man,” I cried, “fearless and stainless! what candor in thy experience!  Thy devotion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, thy sublime love of God, this is thy life, there is no place in thy heart for anything else.  The spotless snow on the mountain’s summit is not more pure than thy saintly old age; thy white hair resembles it.  Oh! father, father!  Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than my blond head.  Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died.  I wish to plant in the soil over your grave the green branch of my young life; I will water it with my tears, and the God of orphans will protect that sacred twig nourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age.”