“I wish you’d show it to me!” she said, coaxingly.
“I’d rather not, Mother, it’s private.”
“But Andrée, my dear, why should you have private letters from that man which you can’t show your mother?”
She had adopted a very tranquil, reasonable tone, to conceal her own distress and the advantage which it gave to Andrée. She was confronted once more by the terrible independence of her children, they all led such busy, lively, entertaining lives in which there was no need at all for her. They loved her, but they would have gone on in exactly the same way if she were not with them. She was unessential, they needed nothing from her. She had never been able to understand how it had happened. When they were little, she was their universe, she consoled, protected, she alone understood them. She had wished to give her life to them. And then little by little they had got upon their feet and walked away, leaving her still standing with empty arms in the nursery. She couldn’t follow them; she didn’t know how to draw near to them, how to win them. She was helpless, just as she was now helpless before Andrée. The very sight of Andrée frightened her, the fragile and mysterious charm of her beloved child wrung her heart, robbed her of worldly wisdom and common sense. She could have knelt before Andrée and adored her, and wept for the pity that touching youth and ignorance caused her.
“I have loved you every moment of your life, from your first breath!” she might have cried. “There is no one in the world for me but you! I love my other children, but oh, not like you! Not like you! I wanted to give all my life to your service. I wanted to live for you, to wear myself out to give you happiness. And you will not have me!”
She stole a glance at the child’s downcast face, mutinous, impatient.
“Andrée, my dear,” she said again. “Why should you have letters from that man which you don’t wish me to see?”
For answer Andrée put her hand inside her blouse and drew out a crumpled letter.
“Here!” she said. “Read it then, if you want!”
But it was impossible to do so, to pry into her poor little secret.