He took my hand and tears came to his eyes.
"Poor girl!" he said to me; "it is not my fault. I did all that I could to keep you from falling over the precipice, but you insisted."
"Do not speak of that," I said; "it is impossible for me to discuss it with you. Tell me if my mother tried to find me after my flight?"
"Your mother sought you, but not earnestly enough. Poor woman! she was thunderstruck and lost her presence of mind. There is no vigor in the blood that you inherit."
"That is true," said I indifferently. "We were all indolent and placid in my family. Did my mother hope that I would return?"
"She hoped so, foolishly and childishly. She still expects you and will expect you till her last breath."
I began to sob. Henryet let me weep without saying a word. I believe that he was weeping too. I wiped my eyes to ask him if my mother had been distressed by my dishonor, if she blushed for me, if she still dared to mention my name.
"She has it always on her lips," he replied. "She tells her grief to everybody; people are a little tired of the story now, and they smile when your mother begins to sob; or else they avoid her, saying: 'Here comes Madame Ruyter to tell us about her daughter's abduction again!'"
I listened to this without anger and said, raising my eyes to his:
"And do you despise me, Henryet?"