The Misery of Mournful Molly

The forest, bathed in soft sunlight, looked like an artist's canvas come to life. Voices could be heard among the trees, covered in emerald foliage - the ringing laughter of a child and the calm, measured baritone of an adult.

Mark Tempe, a 40-year-old professor of piano at Boston University, was dressed elegantly in a white shirt and vest, his style refined, and his light-colored hat added a touch of old-fashioned sophistication. His blond, curly hair peeked out from under the brim of his hat, and his pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose gave him an air of intelligence.

Walking alongside him was his six-year-old daughter, Molly Dunlop, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt decorated with bright red stripes. Her long black hair, braided loosely, swayed slightly as she ran from flower to flower, pointing excitedly at the butterflies that seemed to be circling her on purpose.

"Look, Daddy!" Molly cried, kneeling down in front of a bush covered with tiny white flowers. "Her wings are so shiny, it's like she's from a fairy tale!"

Mark smiled as he sat down next to his daughter.

"That's Clymene the Lemongrass, my dear," he explained, gently touching his pince-nez. "An amazing creation of nature. See how her wings reflect the sunlight? It seems as if she's glowing."

Molly nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with joy.

"Why are butterflies so beautiful, dad?"

Mark thought for a moment, then smiled and replied:

"Perhaps to remind us that there is always beauty around us, even in the most ordinary things. We just need to learn to see it."

Molly froze, looking at her father as if trying to take in the full depth of his words. Mark suddenly jumped to his feet, catching his eye on a bright butterfly that had fluttered from a flower and was slowly floating in the air, its wings flickering, reflecting the sun's rays.

"Now, Molly, watch closely!" he said cheerfully, snatching up a small net from his hand. "Let's see if I can keep up with her!"

He took a few quick steps forward and then ran, trying to catch the light, barely perceptible creature.

Molly laughed, clapped her hands, and ran after her father.

"Daddy, wait for me!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the trees.

A light wind ruffled her black hair as she ran, laughing, after her father, who galloped ahead, swinging his net vigorously. Tree branches flashed overhead, their green changing to bright light as they ran out of the forest into an open clearing.

The field in front of them was covered with dandelions, their yellow heads like hundreds of little suns, dappled on the green grass. The wind blowing from the hill bent the stems, raising the light scent of the flowers into the air.

"Wow!" Molly exclaimed, stopping for a moment. Her eyes widened and she immediately ran on, circling between the dandelions.

In the distance, beyond the field, a small wooden cottage with a veranda and carved shutters was visible. It looked cozy and peaceful, with smoke lazily flowing from the chimney.

"Mom's house," Molly said quietly, looking at the cottage.

Mark stopped, looked in the same direction, and lowered his net. His face became serious for a moment, but then he smiled at his daughter, trying to preserve her joy.

"Yes, my dear," he said, adjusting his hat slightly. "Almost there. But first, maybe we should catch another butterfly?"

Molly nodded happily and ran to her father, and suddenly the silence was cut by the sharp, air-piercing sound of a police siren. Molly froze, her cheerful gaze became wary.

"Daddy, what is this?" she asked fearfully, clinging to his arms.

Mark felt his heart tighten. He knew that sound. He knew what it meant. His face darkened, and a shadow of something unpleasant passed over his eyes. He leaned over to look at his daughter and, trying to remain calm, said:

"Don't worry, Molly. Everything will be okay. Just stay close to me."

They approached a house where a group of gendarmes stood. The men in white jackets with stern faces stood motionless and talked tensely. Mark froze for a moment, not knowing what to do, and his gaze slid over the faces of the gendarmes, trying to understand what was happening. Suddenly, from the veranda of the house, a whisper reached his ears, barely audible, but distinct. Mark listened. He recognized the voice of missis Karen York, who had come that afternoon to have tea at the house of his ex-wife Harey.

"No, well, look - they arrested the owner, but didn't even look at her ex," she whispered with noticeable bewilderment in her voice. "How is that possible?"

Her maid, Jo Thueson, replied with a mixture of sarcasm and calm:

"No wonder. After the divorce, Harey took back her maiden name, and at the same time updated her daughter's documents. She understood perfectly well that she and Molly did not need a connection with this pianist!"

As if in response to their words, Mark saw two gendarmes emerge from the house, escorting Harey Dunlop, his ex-wife. Her hands were cuffed and her steps were heavy, as if her entire life had fallen on her shoulders. Harey held her head high, but her face was hidden behind an expression of anxiety and confusion.

Mark stood frozen, his heart beating fast, unable to move. Molly, holding his hand, also stood in shock, not understanding what was happening. The gendarmes walked past, ignoring their presence, and Harey Dunlop was loaded into the van. Her eyes briefly met Mark's, but she said nothing.

"What a scoundrel this Tempe is!" Karen's voice continued from the veranda, sounding almost with hatred. "He left the manuscript of his treatise with his ex, in which he spoke out against democracy, and missis Dunlop, who was not guilty of anything, was arrested, and all because of the frivolity of this butterfly-catcher in front of her house! He probably still hasn't realized what he did!"