“Do you fancy, mother, that even when in childhood I played with village children my impressions were like those of the rest, and related to real palpable things? As soon as I left the village, passed the last gardens, and went into the wood, I heard by me the rustling of a robe. I reached forth to grasp it, but my fingers closed in air, and the phantom left. Then, though invisible, it gradually became distinct, and a transparent vapour, like that with which Virgil surrounds the mother of AEneas when she appeared to him in Carthage. The vapour grew dense, and assumed human form, which was that of a woman gliding, rather than walking, over the ground. Then a strange, unknown, and irresistible power took hold of me, and I was borne into the depths of the forest, where I followed this phantom with open hands, without its pursuing, or my being ever able to overtake it, until it vanished away by degrees.

  “It seemed to suffer as much as I did, that the will of heaven separated us, for as the phantom left it looked back, and when no longer sustained by its presence I sank exhausted on the ground.”

  This kind of second life of Sebastian, this waking dream, was too much like what And roe had herself experienced for her not to recognise her son.

  “Poor child,” said she, embracing him. “It was in vain that hatred separated us; God insensibly brought us together. Less happy, though, than you, I saw you neither in dreams nor in reality. “When, though, I passed you in the green room, a cold shudder seized me. When I heard your steps behind me something like dizziness occupied both my heart and mind. When you nailed me madame, I had nearly stopped, and almost fainted when you said mother. When you touched me I knew you.”

  “Mother, mother, mother!” said Sebastian, as if to console Andree for not having heard that word for such a time.

  “Yes, your mother!” said she, with a transport which it was impossible to describe.

  “And now that we are met,” said the child, “since you are satisfied, we will never part again.”

  Andree trembled. She had seized the present, and half closing her eyes to the past, neglected the future.

  “My poor child,” said she, with a sigh, “I would indeed bless you, if you could work a miracle.”

  “Let me. I will arrange all.”

  “And how?”

  “I do not know. What circumstances separated you from my father?”

  Andree grew pale.

  “Whatever though they be, they will be effaced by my prayers, or, if need be, by my tears.”

  Andree shook her head.

  “Never, never,” said she.

  “Listen,” said Sebastian. “One day my father said, ‘Child, never speak to me of your mother,’ and then I knew all the wrongs of the separation were on his side. Listen, my father adores me!”

  The hands of Andree, which clasped her child’s, loosened. The child seemed, and probably did, not notice it.

  He continued: “I will prepare him to see you. I will say how happy you have made me; and I will take you by the hand, and say,’ How beautiful she is!”‘

  Andree pushed him away, and rose.

  The child looked on with amazement.

  She was so pale that he was frightened.

  “Never!” said she, “never!”

  The child now shrank back, for on her face were the terrible lines with which Raphael described fallen angels.

  “And why not?’’

  At those words, as when two clouds are driven together by the wind; the lightning fell.

  “Why? you ask me why? Poor child, you know nothing!”

  “Yes,” said Sebastian, firmly, “I ask why!”

  “Well,” said Andree, who found it impossible to repress the pain of the serpent’s wounds in her heart, “because your father is a base villain.”

  Sebastian sprang from his seat, and stood erect before Andree.

  “Do you speak thus of my father, madame? Of Dr. Gilbert, who has educated me, and to whom I owe every tiling: whom alone I know? I was wrong, madame; you cannot be my mother.”

  He rushed towards the door.

  Andree made him pause.

  “Listen: you can neither know, feel, nor judge.”

  “No, no, I feel that I do not love you.”

  Andree uttered a cry of agony.

  Just then a noise was heard outside, the door opened, and a carriage stopped.

  Such a shudder passed over Andree’s limbs, that it was transfused to his soul.

  “Wait,” said she, “and be silent!”

  Perfectly subdued, Sebastian waited.

  The door of the antechamber opened, and footsteps were heard.

  Without eyes, ears, or sound, Andree stood like a statue.

  “Whom shall I announce to the countess?”

  “The Count de Charny, and ask if the countess will see me.”

  “Ah!” said Andree, “go into that room, child, into that room. He must not see you, or know that you live.”

  She pushed the terrified boy into the next room, and shut the door.

  As she did so she said: “Remain there. When he is gone I will tell you, — no, no, I will kiss you, and then you will really know I am your mother.”

  Sebastian replied with a kind of sigh.

  At that moment the door opened, and then the old porter appeared. The countess saw a human form behind him.

  “Show the count in,” said she, in as firm a tone as she could.

  The old man withdrew, and, hat in hand, the count appeared in the room.

  As he was in mourning for his brother, who had been killed two days before, the count was dressed in black.

  His mourning, like Hamlet’s, too, was not on his face, but in his heart, and his pale countenance attested the tears he had shed, and his suffering.

  The countess saw all this at one glance. Handsome faces even look better in tears. Never had Charny looked so well.

  She shut her eyes, and threw her head back, as if to give herself time to breathe, and placed her hand on her heart, which felt as if it would break.

  When she opened her eyes, but a second after she had closed them, she saw Charny in the same place.

  “Pardon me, madame, but is my unexpected presence an intrusion? I am ready, and, as the carriage waits, can go as I came.”

  “Not so,” said Andree, quickly. “I knew you were safe, but am not the less rejoiced to see you after the terrible events that had occurred.”

  “Then you were kind enough to ask about me?” said the count.

  “Certainly. Yesterday, and this morning I heard you were at Versailles. They told me you were this evening with the queen.”

  Were the last words intended as a reproach, or meant they nothing?

  It was evident that the count himself did not know what they meant, and thought for a moment.

  “Madame,” said he, “religious duty kept me yesterday and to-day at Versailles. I look on the duty as sacred, and that, in the queen’s situation, took me, as soon as I could reach Paris, to her presence.”

  Andree now sought to distinguish the real significance of his words.

  Thinking that she really owed an answer to his first words, she said, “Yes, sir, I knew the terrible loss.”

  “Yes, madame, as you say, the death of my brother is a terrible blow to me. You, luckily, cannot understand it, having known poor George so slightly. One thing would console me, if anything could, that poor George has died as Isidor will, as I will die, probably, doing his duty.”

  The words, “as I will die, probably,” touched Andree deeply.

  “Alas, sir, and do you then think affairs so desperate that other sacrifices of blood are needed to appease divine wrath?”

  “I think, madame, the final hour of kings, if not come, is near at hand, and that if the monarchy falls, it will be accompanied by all who have shared its splendour.”

  “True, and when the day conies, sir, believe it will find me, like you, prepared for every devotion.”

  “Ah! madame, you have, in by-gone days, given too strong proofs of devotion, that any, and least of all I, should doubt you in the future; and perhaps have I less reason to doubt yours than mine, which for the first time has hesitated to obey an order of the queen.”

  “I do not understand you, sir.”

  “When I came from Versailles, I received an order at once to present myself to the queen.”

  “Ah!” said Andree, smiling sadly. “It is plain, like you, the queen sees the sad and mysterious future, and wishes to collect around her men on whom she can rely.”

  “You are mistaken, madame; not to join me to, but to remove me from her, did she send for me.”

  “To separate you from her?” said the countess, drawing a little nearer to the count.

  “Excuse me,” said she, seeing that the count during the whole conversation yet stood at the door, “but I keep you standing.” She pointed to a chair.

  As she spoke, she sunk back exhausted on the sofa Sebastian had left; she could stand no longer.

  “Separate,” said she, with an emotion not devoid of joy, as she thought the queen and Charny about to be separated. “And why?”

  “To go on a mission to the Count of Artois and the Duke of Bourbon, at Turin.”

  “And you accepted?”

  Charny looked fixedly at Andree, and said at once, “No, madame.”

  Andree grew so pale that Charny advanced towards her to aid her, but she recalled her strength as she saw him come.

  “No!” added she, “no! you said no to an order of the queen.”

  “I replied that at this moment I thought my presence more useful at Paris than at Turin, where any one could discharge the mission proposed as an honour to me. That I had another brother just arrived, whom I proposed to place at her majesty’s service, and who was ready at once to set out in my place.”

  “And certainly the queen was gratified at the proposition?” said Andree, with a degree of bitterness she could not conceal, and which did not escape Charny.

  “No, madame; my refusal seemed to wound her deeply. I should have been forced to go, had not the king come in, and the matter been referred to him.”

  “And the king sustained you!” said Andree, with an ironical smile. “The king is kind indeed, and, like you, thought you should remain at the Tuileries.”

  Charny did not frown.

  “The king said my brother Isidor was well calculated for the mission, especially as, having come to court for the first time, and being almost unknown, his presence was not likely to be missed, and required the queen to exact me not to leave you at such a crisis.”

  “Leave me! The king said not leave me!”

  “I repeat his own words, madame. Glancing from the queen to me, he said, ‘And where, too, is the Countess Charny?’

  “‘Sire,’ said the queen, ‘Madame de Charny left the palace about an hour ago.’

  “‘How?’ said the king, ‘the countess left the palace? But to return soon?’ added the king.

  “The queen replied, ‘I think not.’

  “‘So the countess has gone. Whither, madame, do you know?’

  “‘I do not,’ said the queen. ‘When my friends leave me, I let them go, and never ask them whither.’

  “‘Ah!’ said the king, ‘some woman’s quarrel. M. de Charny, I would speak with the queen. Await me in my room, and present me to your brother. He will start for Turin this very evening. I agree with you, De Charny; I need you, and will keep you.’

  “I sent for my brother, who had come, and who awaited me in the green saloon.”

  At the last word, Andree, who had almost forgotten Sebastian in her husband’s story, remembered all that had passed between her son and herself, and looked sadly at the door of the room in which he was.

  “Excuse me, madame,” said Charny; “I annoy you with matters with which you do not feel interested, and you doubtless wonder why I am here.”

  “Not so, monsieur; what you have said interests me deeply: for your presence here, after all the fear I have felt for you, in thus proving you to be safe, cannot but please me. Go on then, sir; the king told you to await him, and you sent for your brother?”

  “We went to the king, and as the mission was important, he spoke of that first. (He was not ten minutes behind us.) The object of the mission was to tell their royal highnesses what had taken place. A quarter of an hour after my brother was on the road. The king walked moodily about for awhile, and then pausing in front of me, said: ‘Count, do you know what has taken place between the queen and countess?’

  “‘No, sire,’ said I; ‘something must have taken place, for I found the queen in a terrible humour towards her, and very unjustly, too, it seemed to me.’

  “‘At all events,’ said the king, ‘if the queen does not know where the countess is, you must find out.’ I said I was hardly more informed than the queen, but that I knew you had a household in Rue Coq-Heron, whither you, without doubt, had gone. ‘Go thither, count. I give you leave until tomorrow, provided you bring her back with you then.’“

  Charny looked so fixedly at Andree, that, seeing she could not meet his glance, she closed her eyes.

  “‘Tell her,’“ said Charny, continuing to speak in the king’s name, “‘that I will have her here, even if I go myself for her, and find rooms, certainly not so large as those she had at Versailles, but large enough for man and wife.’ Thus it was that I came at the king’s instance. You will, I know, excuse me.”

  “Ah! sir,” said Andree, rising quickly, and placing her hands in his, “can you doubt it?”

  Charny seized her hands, and placed them to his lips. Andree cried out as if his lips had been hot iron, and sank on the sofa. Her hands were locked in his, so that she could not extricate them, and, without intending it, he was beside her. Having heard some noise in the next room, she hurried to the door so rapidly that the count, not knowing to what movement to attribute the brusquerie of her conduct, arose, and again was before her.

  Charny leaned on the back of the sofa and sighed. Andree let her head rest on her hands; the sigh of Charny had torched the very depth of her heart. What then passed in the heart of the young woman is indescribable. Having been married for rears to a man whom she adored, without that man constantly occupied by another woman, being aware of the terrible sacrifice she made in marrying, she had, with the denial inspired by the double duty of a wife and subject, seen and borne all, and concealed all. But, for some time, it had seemed to her that some words of her husband were gentler, and some glances of the queen more stern, so that the impression was not lost on her. During the days which had rolled by, the terrible days full of terror to so many, alone, perhaps, of all the terrified courtiers, Andree had experienced some pleasant emotions; Charny seemed anxious about her, looked uneasily for her, and met her with joy: a light pressure of the hand communicated a sympathy unseen by those who surrounded them, and established a community of thought between them. These were delicious sensations, unknown to the icy frame and diamond heart which had ever experienced only the pain of love, and its unrequitedness.

  All at once, just as the poor creature had regained her child, and again become a mother, something like the dawn of love was awakened on the horizon of a heart previously obscure and clouded. It was a strange coincidence, and proved that true happiness was not for her. The two circumstances destroyed the effect of each other; the return of the child depriving her for ever of the husband’s love, and the love of the husband making that of the child impossible.

  Charny could not see this when the cry escaped from Andree’s lips, when she repelled his advances, and thrust him into an abyss, from which it seemed impossible for him to extricate himself. He thought it was produced by dislike. Not so, it was the effect of fear.

  Charny sighed, and renewed the conversation where it had been abandoned.

  “What, madame, must I say to the king?”

  At the sound of his voice she quailed; then, lifting up her clear blue eyes, she said:

  “Sir, tell his majesty that I have suffered so much since I belonged to the court, that the queen has had the kindness to permit me to retire, and I do so thankfully. I was not born to live in the world, and in solitude have always found rest, if not happiness. The happiest days of my life were those J passed as a girl in the Castle of Taverney, and later, those I spent in the convent of St. Denis, with that pure daughter of France known as Madame Louise. With your permission, sir, I will inhabit this pavilion, which is full of memories, which, though sad, have yet some soothing.”

  The permission Andree asked was given by the count willingly, like a man not anxious to grant a prayer, but to obey an order.

  “Then, madame, you have decided?’’

  “Yes, sir,” said Andree, gently, but firmly.

  Charny bowed again.

  “And now, madame,” said he, “I have one favour to ask you, to be permitted to visit you here.”

  Andree looked at Charny, with the clear blue eye ordinarily cold and impassive, but now full of surprise and amazement.

  “Certainly, sir!” said she; “but as I see no one, when you are not required at the Tuileries, and have a few moments to spare, I shall always be happy to see you, if you will spare them to me.”

  Charny had never seen so much charm in Andree’s eye. He had never heard so much tenderness in her voice. Something penetrated his veins like the velvet tremor of a first kiss. Charny would have given a whole year to have sat by Andree, though she had previously repulsed him. Timid as a child, however, he dared not, without encouragement, do so.

  Andree would have given, not a year, but an existence, to have seen the one from whom she had so long been separated by her side. Unfortunately, they did not know each other, and each was motionless.

  Charny was the first to break the silence, which one capable alone of reading the heart could have translated.

  “You say you have suffered much at court, madame. Has not the king always treated you with respect amounting to admiration, and the queen almost idolized you?”

  “Ah! yes, sir, the king has ever been very kind to me.”

  “Permit me to observe, madame, that you reply only to a part of my question; has the queen been less kind than the king?”