For that reason alone, if for no other, she was
prepared to worship her. How fervently she blessed this noble
woman, who, a widow. and ruined in fortune by an unprincipled
scoundrel, had bravely toiled to educate her son, making him the
man whom Marguerite had freely chosen from among all others. She
would have knelt before this grand but simple-hearted mother had
she dared; she would have kissed her hands. And a poignant regret
came to her heart when she remembered her own mother, Baroness
Trigault, and compared her with this matchless woman.
Meanwhile the cab had passed the outer boulevards, and was now
whirling along the Route d'Asnieres, as fast as the horse could
drag it. "We are almost there," remarked Madame Ferailleur,
speaking for the first time.
Marguerite's response was inaudible, she was so overcome with
emotion. The driver had just turned the corner of the Route de la
Revolte; and it was not long before he checked his panting horse.
"Look, mademoiselle," said Madame Ferailleur again, "this is our
home."
Upon the threshold, bareheaded, and breathless with impatience and
hope, stood a man who was counting the seconds with the violent
throbbings of his heart. He did not wait for the cab to stop, but
springing to the door, he opened it; and then, catching Marguerite
in his arms, he carried her into the house with a cry of joy.
Pages:
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459