She makes excuses, imagines reasons, but her hands burning between her son’s, and her altered voice, tell Andre that she is not speaking the truth. He is going to strike a light; she prevents him.
“No, no; it is useless. We are better without it. Besides, I have so much to get ready still. I must go away.”
They are both standing up, ready for the separation, but Andre will not let her go without telling him what is the matter, what tragic care is hollowing that fair face where the eyes—was it an effect of the dusk?—shone with a strange light.
“Nothing; no, nothing, I assure you. Only the idea of not being able to take part in your happiness, your triumph. At any rate, you know I love you; you don’t mistrust your mother, do you? I have never been a day without thinking of you: do the same—keep me in your heart. And now kiss me and let me go quickly. I have waited too long.”
Another minute and she would have the strength for what she had to do. She darts forward.
“No, you shall not go. I feel that something extraordinary is happening in your life which you do not want to tell. You are in some great trouble, I am sure. This man has done some infamous thing.”
“No, no. Let me go! Let me go!”
But he held her fast.
“Tell me, what is it? Tell me.”
Then, whispering in her ear, with a voice tender and low as a kiss: