He had implored her to accept the
property, if not for her own sake at least for the sake of
another. And when she asked him whom he meant he had answered,
"Mademoiselle Marguerite," but he was undoubtedly thinking of
Wilkie. So this man, this Isidore Fortunat, knew that she had a
son. Perhaps he was even acquainted with him personally. In his
anger he would very likely hasten to Wilkie's rooms and tell him
everything. This thought filled the wretched woman's heart with
despair. What! Had she not yet expiated her fault? Must she
suffer again?
For the first time a terrible doubt came over her. What she had
formerly regarded as a most sublime effort of maternal love, was,
perhaps, even a greater crime than the first she had committed.
She had given her honor as the price of her son's happiness and
prosperity. Had she a right to do so? Did not the money she had
lavished upon him contain every germ of corruption, misfortune,
and shame? How terrible Wilkie's grief and rage would be if he
chanced to hear the truth!
Alas! he would certainly pay no heed to the extenuating
circumstances; he would close his ears to all attempts at
justification. He would be pitiless. He would have naught but
hatred and scorn to bestow upon a mother who had fallen from the
highest rank in society down to everlasting infamy. She fancied
she heard him saying in an indignant voice, "It would have been
better to have allowed me to die of starvation than to have given
me bread purchased at such a price! Why have you dishonored me by
your ill-gotten wealth? Fallen, you might have raised yourself by
honest toil.
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