"To live. . . ."
"Oh!" she said. "Has it come to that, my poor boy? . . ."
"Yes," he answered, simply, without any affectation of sorrow, "yes, it has come to that. Three human beings are just dead, killed by me, killed by my hands. The burden of the memory is more than I can bear. I am alone. For the first time in my life, I need help. I have the right to ask that help of Geneviève. And her duty is to give it to me. . . . If not . . ."
"If not . . . ?"
"Then all is over."
The old woman was silent, pale and quivering with emotion. She once more felt all her affection for him whom she had fed at her breast and who still and in spite of all remained "her boy." She asked:
"What do you intend to do with her?"
"We shall go abroad. We will take you with us, if you like to come. . . ."
"But you forget . . . you forget. . . ."
"What?"