“No, no. I am not your mother now, poor boy—good-bye.”
It struck him clearly that if he let her go now he should never see her again; lifting her up in his arms he carried her to an arm-chair, forced her into it, and kneeling down in front of her barred her in with his arms.
“You shall not quit this spot, mother. I love you and I will keep you! I will keep you always—I love you and you are mine.”
She murmured in a dejected tone:
“No, my poor boy, it is impossible. You weep to-night, but to-morrow you would turn me out of the house. You, even you, could not forgive me.”
He replied: “I? I? How little you know me!” with such a burst of genuine affection that, with a cry, she seized his head by the hair with both hands, and dragging him violently to her kissed him distractedly all over his face.
Then she sat still, her cheek against his, feeling the warmth of his skin through his beard, and she whispered in his ear: “No, my little Jean, you would not forgive me to-morrow. You think so, but you deceive yourself. You have forgiven me this evening, and that forgiveness has saved my life; but you must never see me again.”
And he repeated, clasping her in his arms:
“Mother, do not say that.”
“Yes, my child, I must go away. I do not know where, nor how I shall set about it, nor what I shall do; but it must be done. I could never look at you, nor kiss you, do you understand?”