“Poor mortality,” muttered the philosopher, “have you had so much happiness that you can dally with a certain amount offered you? so you love him?”
“Yes. Since first I saw him, as the Queen and I sat with him in a hackney-carriage in which we returned from Paris to Versailles one night.”
“You know what love is, Andrea,” queried Gilbert, mournfully.
“I know that love has been given as a standard by which we can measure how much sadness we can endure,” replied she.
“It is well: you are a true woman and a true mother: a rough diamond, you were shaped by the stern lapidary known as Grief. Return to Sebastian.”
“Yes, I see him leaving the house with clenched hands and knit brow. He wanders up the street—he goes up to a woman and asks her for St. Honore Street—--“
“My street: he was seeking for my house. Poor child! he will be there awaiting me.”
“Hold! he has gone astray—he is in New St. Roch Street. Oh, he does not see that vehicle coming down Sourdiere Street, but I see the horses—Ah!”
She drew herself up with an awful scream, maternal anguish depicted on her visage, down which rolled tears and perspiration.
“Oh, if harm befalls him, remember that it will recoil on your head,” hissed Gilbert.