“His father is always to me what you have seen him.  He spares me everything he can spare me, but evidently the fatality he has obeyed continues under the same form.  Notwithstanding, I do not despair of the future, my beloved mother.  Since I saw that tear in his eye, confidence has entered my poor heart.  Be assured, my adored mother, that he will love me one day, if it is only through our child, whom he begins quietly to love without himself perceiving it.  At first, as you remember, this infant was no more to him than I was.  When he surprised him on my knee, he would give him a cold kiss, say, ‘Good-morning, Monsieur,’ and withdraw.  It is just one month—­I have forgotten the date—­it was, ’Good-morning, my son—­how pretty you are!’ You see the progress; and do you know, finally, what passed yesterday?  I entered Robert’s room noiselessly; the door was open—­ what did I behold, my mother!  Monsieur de Camors, with his head resting on the pillow of the cradle, and laughing at this little creature, who smiled back at him!  I assure you, he blushed and excused himself:  ‘The door was open,’ he said, ‘and I came in.’  I assured him that he had done nothing wrong.

“Monsieur de Camors is very odd sometimes.  He occasionally passes the limits which were agreed upon as necessary.  He is not only polite, but takes great trouble.  Alas! once these courtesies would have fallen upon my heart like roses from heaven—­now they annoy me a little.  Last evening, for example, I sat down, as is my custom, at my piano after dinner, he reading a journal at the chimney- corner—­his usual hour for going out passed.  Behold me, much surprised.  I threw a furtive glance, between two bars of music, at him:  he was not reading, he was not sleeping—­he was dreaming.  ‘Is there anything new in the Journal?’—­’No, no; nothing at all.’  Another two or three bars of music, and I entered my son’s room.  He was in bed and asleep.  I devoured him with kisses and returned—­ Monsieur de Camors was still there.  And now, surprise after surprise:  ’Have you heard from your mother?  What does she say?  Have you seen Madame Jaubert?  Have you read this review?’ Just like one who sought to open a conversation.  Once I would willingly have paid with my blood for one of these evenings, and now he offers them to me, when I know not what to do with them.  Notwithstanding I remember the advice of my mother, I do not wish to discourage these symptoms.  I adopt a festive manner.  I light four extra waxlights.  I try to be amiable without being coquettish; for coquetry here would be shameful—­would it not, my dear mother?  Finally, we chatted together; he sang two airs to the piano; I played two others; he painted the design of a little Russian costume for Robert to wear next year; then talked politics to me.  This enchanted me.  He explained to me his situation in the Chamber.  Midnight arrived; I became remarkably silent; he rose:  ’May I press your hand in friendship?’—­’