“He shall know it, my dear Auguste,” exclaimed I, as the tears coursed down my cheeks. “I feel now that I was very selfish in consenting to Madame d’Albret’s proposal, but I was hardly in my senses at the time.”
“I cannot wonder at your taking the step, nor can I blame you. Your life was one of torture, and it was torture to others to see what you underwent.”
“I pity my father, for weak as he was, the punishment has been too severe.”
“But you will make him happy now, and he will rejoice in his old days.”
“And now, Auguste, tell me about Nicolas—he never liked me, but I forgive him—how is he?”
“He is, I believe, well; but he has left his home.”
“Left home!”
“You know how kind your mother was to him—I may say, how she doted upon him. Well, one day he announced his intention of going to Italy, with a friend he had picked up, who belonged to Naples. His mother was frantic at the idea, but he actually laughed at her, and behaved in a very unfeeling manner. Your mother was cut to the heart, and has never got over it; but, Valerie, the children who are spoiled by indulgence, always turn out the most ungrateful.”
“Have you heard of him since?”
“Yes; he wrote to me, telling me that he was leading an orchestra in some small town, and advancing rapidly—you know his talent for music—but not one line has he ever written to his mother.”