“Dame,” she said, shortly, “my Lord your son—”
“Bring him in!” cried the Countess, in a voice of ecstasy, without allowing Lady Foljambe to finish her sentence. How it was to end she seemed to have no doubt, and the sudden joy lent a fictitious strength to her enfeebled frame. “Bring him in! my Jean, my darling, my little lad! Said I not the lad should never forsake his old mother? Bring him in!”
Lady Foljambe drew back to allow the Duke to enter, for his step was already audible. He came in, and stood by the bed—tall, upright, silent.
“My Jean!” cried the dying mother.
“Madame!” was the answer, decorous and icy.
“Kiss me, my Jean! Why dost thou not kiss me? Lad, I have not seen thee all these weary years!”
The Duke, in a very proper manner, kissed the weak old hand which was stretched out towards him. His lips were warm, but his kiss was as cold as a kiss well could be.
“Madame,” said the Duke, mindful of the proprieties, “it gives me indescribable grief to find you thus. I am also deeply distressed that it should be impossible for me to remain with you. I expect news from Bretagne every day—almost every hour—which I hope will summon me back thither to triumph over my rebellious subjects, and to resume my throne in victory. You will, therefore, grant me excuse if it be impossible for me to do more than kiss your hand and entreat your blessing.”
“Not stay, my Jean!” she said, in piteous accents. “Not stay, when thou hast come so far to see me! Dost thou know that I am dying?”
“Madame, I am infinitely grieved to perceive it. But reasons of state are imperative and paramount.”