"What does this mean? I know not my father's whereabouts; René is likely in grave danger; but my thoughts are absorbed with this child who is joined to me by no tie, whom chance placed in my arms and violence removed."
Morning dawned and she had not closed her eyes. The birth of day brought calmness as it does to all human souls. She had no longer need of concealment, so, running to the windows, she flung them wide open, heedless of the warning that death would ensue, which Vilon had given her when she arrived in the Castle. The light streamed into the Marquise's boudoir. The capricious antiquated draperies became illuminated like a stage setting, contrasting with the desolate magnificence of the exterior and the sombre massiveness of the towers which the sun began to brighten. Amélie looked out through those windows for the first time.
"What will they do to Baby?" she asked herself. "What can they do? Nothing more than separate him from me I suppose. But he has become so dear to me—Still that shall not break my will. I the wife of Jean Vilon?—What is the meaning of this? How has he dared lend himself to the scheme? Why has he let the Duchess in? O his passion explains it all. How repellent!—Better death a thousand times."
She gazed vacantly upon the faded silken hangings, the sumptuous furniture and elegant old laces; she caught her image in the mirrors of magnificent frames wherein the Marquise had so often beheld her pallid wasted features. Suddenly, she started, listening affrightedly to Baby Dick's cry in the next room.
"Mamma 'Mélie! Mamma 'Mélie!" he called. "Come! Give me breakfast. It is very late."
With passion of which she had not deemed herself capable, she ran to the door and shook it violently, crying:
"My little heart, I can't come to you. Wait. Be very patient."
"My pretty mamma, I am alone. That bad lady shut me in. O break the door, mamma."
"I can't Baby," she answered, pushing with all her strength against the panels. And giving way to her grief, she dropped into a chair and sobbed. For the first time, despair seized her. Woman's tenderest attribute—the maternal instinct—vanquished her strong heart, even tho her attachment was for another woman's child. Perhaps, on that very account, 'twas more highly idealized.
Baby Dick continued to call to her in his sweet, pleading tones and she hid her face in the satin cushions, in a longing to drown his voice. But though she heard his wails more faintly, they seemed on that account more plaintive. She jumped into bed, drew the clothes over her head and sobbed in time to his moaning.