LITMIR.BIZ

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certificate of the Rev. Dr. Sedley; this is the declaration of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer’s wife; and these others are the statements of the physician and of several persons of high social position who were acquainted with Mme. de la Verberie during her stay in London. Not a single link is missing. I had great difficulty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran. Had he anticipated my intention of thus disposing of them, they would never have been surrendered to my keeping.”

      As he finished speaking, the young man threw the bundle of papers into the fire where they blazed up; and in a moment nothing remained of them but a little heap of ashes.

      “All is now destroyed, madame,” he said, with a satisfied air. “The past, if you desire it, is as completely annihilated as those papers. If anyone, thereafter, dares accuse you of having had a son before your marriage, treat him as a vile calumniator. No proof against you can be produced; none exists. You are free.”

      Mme. Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene; the truth dawned upon her bewildered mind.

      This noble youth, who protected her from the anger of De Clameran, who restored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will, by destroying all proofs of her past, was, must be, the child whom she had abandoned: Valentin-Raoul.

      In an instant, all was forgotten save the present. Maternal tenderness, so long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as with intense emotion she murmured:

      “Raoul!”

      At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started and tottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.

      “Yes, Raoul,” he cried, “Raoul, who would a thousand times rather die than cause his mother a moment’s pain; Raoul, who would shed his life’s blood to spare her one tear.”

      She made no attempt to struggle against nature’s yearnings; her longing to clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratified at all costs.

      She opened her arms, and Raoul sprang forward with a cry of joy:

      “Mother! my blessed mother! Thanks be to God for this first kiss!”

      Alas! this was the sad truth. The deserted child had never been blest by a mother’s kiss. This dear son whom she had never seen before, had been taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother’s blessing, a mother’s embrace. After twenty years waiting, should it be denied him now?

      But joy so great, following upon so many contending emotions, was more than the excited mother could bear; she sank back in her chair almost fainting, and with distended eyes gazed in a bewildered, eager way upon her long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet.

      With tenderness she stroked the soft chestnut curls, and drank in the tenderness of his soft dark eyes, and expressive mouth, as he murmured words of filial affection in her craving ear.

      “Oh, mother!” he said, “words cannot describe my feelings of pain and anguish upon hearing that my uncle had dared to threaten you. He threaten you! He repents already of his cruelty; he did not know you as I do. Yes, my mother, I have known you for a long, long time. Often have my father and I hovered around your happy home to catch a glimpse of you through the window. When you passed by in your carriage, he would say to me, ‘There is your mother, Raoul!’ To look upon you was our greatest joy. When we knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the door to see you enter, in your satin and diamonds. How often have I followed your fast horses to see you descend from the carriage and enter wealthy doors, which I could never hope to penetrate! And how my noble father loved you always! When he told his brother to apply to you in my behalf, he was unconscious of what he said; his mind was wandering.”

      Tears, the sweetest tears she had ever shed, coursed down Mme. Fauvel’s cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones of Raoul’s voice.

      This voice was so like Gaston’s, that she seemed once more to be listening to the lover of her almost forgotten youth.

      She was living over again those stolen meetings, those long hours of bliss, when Gaston was at her side, as they sat and watched the river rippling beneath the trees.

      It seemed only yesterday that Gaston had pressed her to his faithful heart; she saw him still saying gently:

      “In three years, Valentine! Wait for me!”

      Andre, her two sons, Madeleine, all were forgotten in this new-found affection.

      Raoul continued in tender tones:

      “Only yesterday I discovered that my uncle had been to demand for me a few crumbs of your wealth. Why did he take such a step? I am poor, it is true, very poor; but I am too familiar with poverty to bemoan it. I have a clear brain and willing hands: that is fortune enough for a young man. You are very rich. What is that to me? Keep all your fortune, my beloved mother; but do not repel my affection; let me love you. Promise me that this first kiss shall not be the last. No one will ever know of my new-found happiness; not by word or deed will I do aught to let the world suspect that I possess this great joy.”

      And Mme. Fauvel had dreaded this son! Ah, how bitterly did she now reproach herself for not having flown to meet him the instant she heard that he was living!

      She questioned him regarding the past; she wished to know how he had lived, what he had been doing.

      He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had been that of every poor boy, who had nothing to look forward to but a life of labor and privation.

      The farmer’s wife who had brought him up was a kind-hearted woman, and had always treated him with affection. She had even given him an education superior to his condition in life, because, as she always said, he would make himself a great name, and attain to wealth, if he were taught.

      When about sixteen years of age, she procured him a situation in a banking-house; and he was getting a salary, which, though small, was enough to support him and supply a few luxuries for his adopted mother.

      One day a stranger came to him and said:

      “I am your father: come with me.”

      Since then nothing was wanting to his happiness, save a mother’s tenderness. He had suffered but one great sorrow, and that was the day when Gaston de Clameran, his father, had died in his arms.

      “But now,” he said, “all is forgotten, that one sorrow is forgotten in my present happiness. Now that I see you and possess your love, I forget the past, and ask for nothing more.”

      Mme. Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, and was startled when Raoul exclaimed:

      “Why, it is seven o’clock!”

      Seven o’clock! What would her family think of this long absence? Her husband must be even now awaiting dinner.

      “Shall I see you again, mother?” asked Raoul in a beseeching tone, as they were about to separate.

      “Oh, yes!” she replied, fondly, “yes, often; every day, to-morrow.”

      But now, for the first time since her marriage, Mme. Fauvel perceived that she was not mistress of her actions. Never before had she had occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.

      She left her heart and soul behind her in the Hotel du Louvre, where she had just found her son. She was compelled to leave him, to undergo the intolerable agony of composing her face to conceal this great happiness, which had changed her whole life and being. She was angry with fate because she could not remain with her first-born son.

      Having some difficulty in procuring a carriage, it was half-past seven before she reached the Rue de Provence, when she found the family waiting for her.

      She thought her husband silly, and even vulgar, when he joked her upon letting her poor children starve to death, while she was promenading the boulevards.

      So strange are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regarded almost with contempt this unbounded confidence reposed in her.

      She replied to his jest

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