"Tears!" said she. "And yet you stand before the portrait of your father, whom you accuse me of having murdered!"
"No, no," cried her son, eagerly, "I did not accuse, I—I—"
"You inquired," interrupted the countess, disdainfully. "And by your inquiry you insinuate that such a crime by the hand of your mother was not only possible, but probable."
"Unhappily, I have more than once seen La Voisin in your boudoir, mother."
The countess affected not to hear. "Then a son considers himself justifiable in asking of his mother whether or not she poisoned his father; he should do so with the sword of justice in his hand, not with an eyelid that trembles with cowardly tears."
"Mother, have pity on me," sobbed Eugene, throwing himself at her feet. "Do not answer my cruel question, for I read your innocence in the noble scorn that flashes from your eye, and beams from every feature of your dear, truthful face. Pardon me, beloved mother; pardon your repentant child."
"No, I shall not pardon the poltroon who, believing that his mother has disgraced his escutcheon, weeps like a woman over wrongs which he should avenge like a man. But I forgot. The little abbe of Savoy is not accustomed to wear a sword; HIS weapon is the missal. Go, then, to your prayers, and when you pray for your father's soul, ask forgiveness of God for your heartless and ungrateful conduct to his widow."
"Dear, dear mother, have pity!" sobbed Eugene, still kneeling at her feet.
"Was there any pity in your heart for me when you asked that shameful question?"
"I was demented," cried he; "maddened by the sneers that were flung at me in the streets to-day."