“Yes, but I told them not to trouble you.”
The old soldier understood the delicacy, the womanly tact of so gracious a precaution, and took the Countess’ hand to kiss it.
“But let them come,” said he.
The little girl ran up to complain of her brother.
“Mamma!”
“Mamma!”
“It was Jules—”
“It was her—”
Their little hands were held out to their mother, and the two childish voices mingled; it was an unexpected and charming picture.
“Poor little things!” cried the Countess, no longer restraining her tears, “I shall have to leave them. To whom will the law assign them? A mother’s heart cannot be divided; I want them, I want them.”