The burned woman looked hopelessly at him; she tried hard to understand him, but her clouded mind could not at first grasp what he meant.
"I will tell you what I know of the past," continued Fanfaro, slowly. "I formerly lived at Leigoutte in the Vosges. My father's name was Jules, my mother's Louise, and my little sister Louison—where is Louison?"
At last a ray of reason broke from the disfigured eyes, and she whispered:
"Jacques, my dear Jacques! I am Louise, your mother, and the wife of Jules Fougeres!"
"My mother!" stammered Fanfaro with emotion, and taking the broken woman in his arms, he fervently kissed her disfigured face. The poor woman clung to him. The veil of madness was torn aside and stroking the handsome face of the young man with her broken fingers, she softly murmured:
"I have you again. God be thanked!"
"But where is Louison?" broke in Fanfaro, anxiously.
Still the brain of the sick woman could not grasp all the new impressions she had received, and although she looked again and again at Fanfaro, she left the question unanswered.
At any other time Fanfaro would have left the sick woman alone, but his anxiety about Louison gave him no peace. He did not doubt a minute but that his mother had recognized Louison long ago as her daughter, and so he asked more urgently:
"Mother, where is Louison? Your little Louison, my sister?"