"Wilkie," she murmured.
"Madame!"
She heaved a deep sigh, and in a half-stifled voice:
"MADAME!" she repeated. "Will you not call me mother?"
"Yes, of course--certainly. But--only you know it will take me
some time to acquire the habit. I shall do so, of course; but I
shall have to get used to it, you know."
"True, very true!--but tell me it is not mere pity that leads you
to make this promise? If you should hate me--if you should curse
me--how should I bear it! Ah! when a woman reaches the years of
understanding one should never cease repeating to her: 'Take care!
Your son will be twenty some day, and you will have to meet his
searching gaze. You will have to render an account of your honor
to him!' My God! If women thought of this, they would never sin.
To be reduced to such a state of abject misery that one dares not
lift one's head before one's own son! Alas! Wilkie, I know only
too well that you cannot help despising me."
"No, indeed. Not at all! What an idea!"
"Tell me that you forgive me!"
"I do, upon my word I do."
Poor woman, her face brightened. She so longed to believe him!
And her son was beside her, so near that she felt his breath upon
her cheek. It was he indeed. Had they ever been separated? She
almost doubted it, she had lived so near him in thought. It was
with a sort of ecstasy that she looked at him.
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