He found the mother and the boy clasped in each other’s arms; and the mother, in a great state of alarm, her eyes moist with tears, was saying:
“You’re not hurt? You’re sure? Oh, how frightened you must have been, my poor little Jacques!”
“A fine little fellow,” said Lupin.
She did not reply. She was feeling the child’s jersey, as Lupin had done, no doubt to see if he had succeeded in his nocturnal mission; and she questioned him in a whisper.
“No, mummy,” said the child. “No, really.”
She kissed him fondly and petted him, until, in a little while, the child, worn out with fatigue and excitement, fell asleep. She remained leaning over him for a long time. She herself seemed very much worn out and in need of rest.
Lupin did not disturb her contemplation. He looked at her anxiously, with an attention which she did not perceive, and he noticed the wider rings round her eyes and the deeper marks of wrinkles. Yet he considered her handsomer than he had thought, with that touching beauty which habitual suffering gives to certain faces that are more human, more sensitive than others.
She wore so sad an expression that, in a burst of instinctive sympathy, he went up to her and said: “I do not know what your plans are, but, whatever they may be, you stand in need of help. You cannot succeed alone.”
“I am not alone.”
“The two men outside? I know them. They’re no good. I beseech you, make use of me. You remember the other evening, at the theatre, in the private box? You were on the point of speaking. Do not hesitate to-day.”