It was Madam who arrived first, for she was riding ahead of the other two, who tramped along with a free swinging walk. She alighted from her horse and went tremblingly toward the girl, who stood by her father’s side not less agitated. In these months Madam had aged greatly. She looked like an old woman. “My son! My son!” she cried. “Where is he? I want my son!”
“He is here. We have sent for him. He will arrive at once,” M. Hervieu returned courteously. “Allow me to lead you in, madam.”
“Madam!” Alaine stood shyly by.
“Alaine!” The mother sank into a chair and began to weep softly. “Give him back to me, my boy. My poor boy!”
“He is here. You shall see him at once,” repeated Alaine, kneeling by her. “Madam, this is my father, who has lately been restored to his daughter. He can understand.” She saw Lendert coming and ran out another way. For some reason she would rather not witness the meeting between mother and son.
She ran out the gate and down the road to meet Jeanne just beyond the fence. “Jeanne! Jeanne! it is so good to see you again. Oh, you good Jeanne, how can I thank you and Petit Marc for your goodness to M. Verplanck? And Jeanne, Jeanne, it is my father who is in there. There are so many wonderful things happening. Come in, come in.”
Jeanne shrank back a little. “Will I do, Alaine? Will I do? Remember I must meet Michelle with dignity. I am really trembling, Alaine, old stupide that I am. After all these years, and it is Theodore Hervieu in there.”
If she were uncertain of her welcome, its heartiness took away all discomfort. It was M. Hervieu who grasped her hands and called her his dear old friend Jeanne Bisset. It was Michelle who, rather awkwardly, but in all kindliness, first hesitated and then embraced her. It was Lendert who led her to his mother, saying, “But for these two, Jeanne Crepin and Marc Lenoir, I should no longer be living, madam.”
This caused Madam’s tears again to flow, and she sobbed forth, “And I drove her from me. Twice has she heaped coals of fire upon my head: first by warning me on that dreadful morning, and then she saves you. I am a wicked old woman, Jeanne Crepin.”
“We are all wicked, whether we be old or young, men or women,” returned Jeanne, seriously. “I am no saint myself, neither is Petit Marc.”