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The next day, at the same time, I was at the bishopric. Monseigneur was waiting for me. “I’ve had an interview with Doctor H…,” he said to me. “Go to his surgery today, with your mother.” I’d told her about it the day before. Her anxiety was beyond words. At the arranged time we arrived at the doctors. He was not what is widely recognised as a doctor but he was a man of science in every sense of the word.
He understood the seriousness of the mission which he’d been given. It flattered his pride as it was certainly the first of its kind he’d been assigned, and I must say, he was up to the task.
Despite this, I had not expected him to give me such a rigorous examination.
I hated watching him discovering my dearest secrets and some of his questions seemed like such violations that I could barely restrain myself in answering.
“Here,” he said to me, “you must not only see me as a doctor, but as a confessor. I need to know everything as well as to see for myself. This moment is serious for you, even more than you think, perhaps. I must be able to answer for you in total security, to Monseigneur first of all, and undoubtedly before the law as well, which may call on me as a witness.” I won’t go into the minute details of the examination here, after which the science capitulated, convinced.
All that remained now was to undo an error committed outside the bounds of all ordinary rules. To undo it, it was necessary to instigate a judgement that would rectify my civil status.
“Frankly,” the good doctor said to me, “your godmother had a stroke of genius calling you Camille. Give me your hand mademoiselle; in a while, I hope, we’ll call you something else. When I leave you, I’ll go to the bishopric. I don’t know what Monseigneur will decide, but I doubt that he’ll permit you to return to L… There, your position is lost; it cannot be tolerated. What is beyond me is that my colleague at L… compromised himself to the point of letting you stay so long, knowing what you are. As for Madame P…, her naivety is unfathomable.” He then addressed some comforting words to my mother, whose stupefaction was at its height. “You’ve lost your daughter, it’s true,” he said to her, “but you’ve gained a son who you weren’t expecting.”
Our entrance into the appartment of M. de Saint-M… was an event. The old nobleman was pacing up and down to hide his feverish impatience. On seeing us, he stopped; my mother guided him to a chair and sat at his feet. I put myself at some distance, not wishing to start the story of what had just happened. From time to time M. de Saint-M… raised his eyes to me and responded to the details my mother was giving him with an exclamation. He was stupefied at first, but he then saw the situation more calmly, calculating that in the future it could give me a more advantageous position. With the right protection, one can only hope for it. “All the same,” he said, “I’ve had to wait 80 years to witness such an outcome, and it’s you, Camille, who has brought it about! May you be happy later, poor child!” I was so I couldn’t reply; my delirious imagination couldn’t fix on a serious or rational thought. Every now and again I asked myself if I wasn’t the plaything of an impossible dream.
The inevitable outcome that I’d predicted, desired even, now scared me like a revolting enormity. I had definitely provoked it, it had undoubtedly been my duty; but who knows? Perhaps I’d been wrong. This abrupt change which was going to expose me in unexpected ways, wouldn’t it ruin any chance of respectability?
Would the world, so severe, so blind in its judgments consider this a movement that could pass for loyalty, and not think more to spoil it, to accuse me of a crime?