"My mother, oh, my mother!" exclaimed he, covering his face with his hands.
Behind the portiere there was the faint sound of a mocking laugh, but neither mother nor son heard it. They heard naught but the insufferable throbs of their own hearts; they saw, each one, naught but the death-like face of the other.
"Yes, it is your unhappy mother—she who once vowed never again to cross your threshold—but maternity is merciful, Carl, and I come hither to pardon and to rescue you, while yet there is time for flight."
The young count made no reply. At the astounding revelation made by the dropping of that black veil, he had retreated in mingled shame and surprise. He had accosted his own mother in the language of libertinism, and he stood gazing upon her with looks of sorrow and regret. He had scarcely heard her speak, so absorbed was he in self-reproach. And now as she ceased, he murmured:
"Is that my mother? My mother, with the wrinkled brow and the white hair!"
The countess returned his gaze with a mournful smile. "You have not seen me for two years, Carl, and since then sorrow has transformed me into an old woman. I need not tell you why I have sorrowed. Oh, my child! Whence comes the gold with which this fearful splendor is purchased? Your father—"
"My father!" echoed the count, recalled to self-possession by the word.
"What am I to him, who cursed me and forbade me his house! Tell him,"
cried he, fiercely, "that if I am lost, it is he who shall answer to
Heaven for my soul!"
"Peace!" exclaimed the mother, in a tone of authority. "Nor attempt to shift your disgrace upon him who has been, not the cause of your crimes, but their victim. Why did he curse you, reprobate, tell me why?"
The count was so awed by her words and looks that he obeyed almost instinctively.
"Because I had forged," was the whispered reply.