"My child! My little thing—my sweet—speak to me—"
Her whole being was convulsed. Little storms of rappings seemed to answer her. The perspiration trickled down Monsieur Leroy's temples. He seemed to be making an effort altogether beyond his natural strength.
"Speak to me—call me by the little name!" sobbed the Princess, and her tears wet her hands and the table.
Monsieur Leroy began to repeat the alphabet. From time to time a rap stopped him at a letter, and then he began over again. In this way the rapping spelt out the word "Mamette."
"She says 'Mamette,'" said Monsieur Leroy, in a puzzled tone. "Does that mean anything?"
But the Princess burst into passionate weeping. It was the name she had asked for, the child's own pet name for her, its mother; it was the last word the poor little dying lips had tried to form. Never since that moment had the heart-broken woman spoken it, never since the fourth year before Monsieur Leroy had been born.
He looked at her, for he seemed to have preserved his self-control, and he saw that if matters went much further the poor sobbing woman would reach a state which might be dangerous. He withdrew his hands from the table and waited.
"She is gone, but she will come again now, whenever you call her," he said gently.
"No, do not go!" cried the Princess, clutching at the smooth wood frantically. "Come back, come back and speak to me once more!"
"She is gone, for to-night," said Monsieur Leroy, in the same gentle tone. "I am very much exhausted."