Mme. Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene; the truth dawned upon her bewildered mind.
This noble youth, who protected her from the anger of De Clameran, who restored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will, by destroying all proofs of her past, was, must be, the child whom she had abandoned: Valentin-Raoul.
In an instant, all was forgotten save the present. Maternal tenderness, so long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as with intense emotion she murmured:
“Raoul!”
At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started and tottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.
“Yes, Raoul,” he cried, “Raoul, who would a thousand times rather die than cause his mother a moment’s pain; Raoul, who would shed his life’s blood to spare her one tear.”
She made no attempt to struggle against nature’s yearnings; her longing to clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratified at all costs.
She opened her arms, and Raoul sprang forward with a cry of joy:
“Mother! my blessed mother! Thanks be to God for this first kiss!”
Alas! this was the sad truth. The deserted child had never been blest by a mother’s kiss. This dear son whom she had never seen before, had been taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother’s blessing, a mother’s embrace. After twenty years waiting, should it be denied him now?