"You don't love me, mamma. You don't love me," the boy returned, half-smiling, leaning his head with delight on the bosom that had sheltered his sad childhood. The mother, meantime, wildly kissed his hair, his neck, his eyes—as if to make up for lost time—lavishing upon him the honeyed words with which infants are beguiled, words profaned in hours of passion, which overflowed in the pure channel of maternal love.
"My treasure—my king—my glory."
At last the hunchback felt a tear fall on his cheek. Delicious assuagement! At first, the tears were large and round, scorching almost, but soon they came in a gentle shower and then ceased altogether, and there remained where they had fallen only a grateful sense of coolness. Passionate phrases rushed simultaneously from the lips of mother and son.
"Do you love me dearly, dearly, dearly? As much as your whole life?"
"As much, my life, my treasure."
"Will you always love me?"
"Always, always, my joy."
"Will you do something to please me, mamma? I want to ask you——"
"What?"
"A favor. Don't turn your face away!"