Mme. Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, and was startled when Raoul exclaimed:
“Why, it is seven o’clock!”
Seven o’clock! What would her family think of this long absence? Her husband must be even now awaiting dinner.
“Shall I see you again, mother?” asked Raoul in a beseeching tone, as they were about to separate.
“Oh, yes!” she replied, fondly, “yes, often; every day, to-morrow.”
But now, for the first time since her marriage, Mme. Fauvel perceived that she was not mistress of her actions. Never before had she had occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.
She left her heart and soul behind her in the Hotel du Louvre, where she had just found her son. She was compelled to leave him, to undergo the intolerable agony of composing her face to conceal this great happiness, which had changed her whole life and being. She was angry with fate because she could not remain with her first-born son.
Having some difficulty in procuring a carriage, it was half-past seven before she reached the Rue de Provence, when she found the family waiting for her.
She thought her husband silly, and even vulgar, when he joked her upon letting her poor children starve to death, while she was promenading the boulevards.
So strange are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regarded almost with contempt this unbounded confidence reposed in her.