ordinary interest to look consciously upon his mother for the first time at the age of eight-and-twenty.
From her he looked at last at Jacques, who remained at attention, waiting by the open door.
"Could we be alone, madame?" he asked her.
She waved the footman away, and the door closed. In agitated silence, unquestioning, she waited for him to account for his presence there at so extraordinary a time.
"Rougane could not return," he informed her shortly. "At M. de Kercadiou's request, I come instead."
"You! You are sent to rescue us!" The note of amazement in her voice was stronger than that of her relief.
"That, and to make your acquaintance, madame."
"To make my acquaintance? But what do you mean, André-Louis?"
"This letter from M. de Kercadiou will tell you."
Intrigued by his odd words and odder manner, she took the folded sheet. She broke the seal with shaking hands, and with shaking hands approached the written page to the light. Her eyes grew troubled as she read; the shaking of her hands increased, and midway through that reading a moan escaped her. One glance that was almost terror she darted at the slim, straight man standing so incredibly impassive upon the edge of the light, and then she endeavoured to read on. But the crabbed characters of M. de Kercadiou swam distortedly under her eyes. She could not read. Besides, what could it matter what else he said. She had read enough. The sheet fluttered from her hands to the table, and out of a face that was like a face of wax, she looked now with a wistfulness, a sadness indescribable, at André-Louis.
"And so you know, my child?" Her voice was stifled to a whisper.
"I know, madame my mother."
The grimness, the subtle blend of merciless derision and reproach in which it was uttered completely escaped her. She cried out at the new name. For her in that moment time and the world stood still. Her peril there in Paris as
