But he is interrupted. The paralytic falls upon her knees, and stretching out her arms, cries:
"Jacques! Jacques!"
"Who is this terrible creature," asks Jacques, "who calls me by the name of my boyhood?"
Suddenly a strange idea flashes into his mind. He looks eagerly into the eyes of the poor woman. He recognizes her; he leans over her.
"You called me Jacques, did you not? Yes, that was my name, when I was a boy in a village among the mountains. My father's name was Simon, Simon Fougère, and I had a little sister Cinette."
The woman quivered from head to foot. She threw her arms around his neck.
"Jacques! my child! My name is Françoise, and I am the widow of Simon Fougère."
"Mother! dear mother!"
This shock has been so great that the vail that obscured the poor woman's brain was rent in twain. She sees, she knows, she understands. It is he—it is the boy she held on her knees, in those days so long ago. He took her tenderly in his arms, and both weep.
"Ah! dear mother," he said, "you braved death for the sake of your children. How did you escape?"