A withered crone, ostentatiously unclean, was dishing up for the patient a thin broth of herbs. Reason might have questioned of the meaning of her presence, or of the soup’s poor quality. De France was under no necessity for retrenchment just because he had been disappointed of a handsome legacy in trust. But remorse has no reason. Yolande saw nothing here but the tragic figure of an ambition her perversity had doomed. A dignified presence may command so much more than its due of sympathy for the common crucifyings of circumstance. Majesty covers a multitude of meannesses. She fell on her knees by the bed.
“Father, I have come to make my peace with you!”
The pupils of the Chevalier’s eyes, turned darkly on the suppliant, dilated imperceptibly.
“Who is this who enters to disturb my resignation? I have made my peace with Heaven.”
“No, no, father! No, no! I am Yolande, thy daughter, thy one poor child. Know me and forgive me. I have done wrong. O, my father, I have been wicked and undutiful, but God has cleared my eyes!”
His own were brightening wonderfully; the specks were grown to tadpoles. He snapped at the wheezy beldame with a sudden viciousness that almost made her drop the dish.
“Begone, thou old prying gossip! What dost thou here, pricking thy mouldy ears?”
She scuttled. He held out a waxen hand. Yolande imprisoned and devoured it.
“Art thou my child?” he said. “I had thought she had abandoned me indeed.”
She wept, bowing her head, and mumbling:—