any preparations still to make; I must go."

They are both standing, ready for the parting; but Andre will not let
her go until he has made her confess what the matter is, what tragic
anxiety causes the wrinkles on that lovely face, in which the eyes--is
it an effect of the twilight?--gleam with fierce brilliancy.

"Nothing--no, nothing, I promise you. Only the thought that I cannot
share in your joys, your triumphs. But you know that I love you, you do
not doubt your mother, do you? I have never passed a day without
thinking of you. Do you do as much; keep a place in your heart for me.
And now kiss me, and let me go at once. I have delayed too long."

A moment more and she will not have strength to do what she still has to
do. She rushes toward the door.

"I say no, you shall not go. I have a feeling that some extraordinary
thing is taking place in your life that you don't wish to tell me. You
are in great sorrow, I am sure of it. That man has done some shameful
thing to you."

"No, no; let me go, let me go."

But on the contrary, he holds her, holds her fast.

"Come, what is the matter? Tell me, tell me--"

Then, under his breath, in a low, loving voice, like a kiss:

"He has left you, has he not?"

The unhappy creature shudders, struggles.

"Don't ask me any questions. I will not tell you anything. Adieu!"

And he rejoins, straining her to his heart:

"What can you tell me that I do not know already, my poor mother? Didn't
you understand why I left his house six months ago?"

"You know?"

"Everything. And this that has happened to you to-day I have long
foreseen and hoped for."

"Oh! wretched, wretched woman that I am, why did I come?"

"Because this is your proper place, because you owe me ten years of my
mother. You see that I must keep you."

He says this kneeling in front of the couch upon which she has thrown
herself in a flood of tears and with the last plaintive outcries of her
wounded pride. For a long while she weeps thus, her son at her feet. And
lo! the Joyeuses, anxious at Andre's non-appearance, come up in a body
in search of him. There is a veritable invasion of innocent faces,
waving curls, modest costumes, rippling gayety, and over the whole group
shines the great lamp, the good old lamp with the huge shade, which M.
Joyeuse solemnly holds aloft as high and as straight as he can, in the
attitude of a _canephora_. They halt abruptly, dumbfounded, at sight of
that pale, sad woman w