Eugene opened the door for her, and stood in polite weariness beside it. Then one by one big tears began to roll down his cheeks. He did not know why they came there, and he made no effort to brush them away.
“Do you remember your mother?” asked Mrs. Hardy softly.
“No, madam; she died when I was an infant.”
“And have you never had a woman to love you and call you her child, and tuck you in your little bed at night?” asked Mrs. Hardy.
“I have always had a bonne, a nurse,” said Eugene—“many of them; but my grandfather is the only mother I have had.”
“And is there no one in the world that you love now—no one that you cling to?”
“I have the memory of my grandfather and of his Majesty the emperor.”
“You’re the queerest little boy I ever saw. You are something like the Chinese. They worship their ancestors.”
“Possibly,” said Eugene with a doubtful glance, as if he questioned the truth of her statement.