"The scar! . . . It's there! . . . The white scar! . . ."
Then Véronique became greatly agitated. She remembered Stéphane Maroux's diary and certain details set down by him which François must have heard. One of these details was this scar, which recalled an old and rather serious injury.
She felt the boy's lips pressed to her hand, first gently and then with passionate ardour and a great flow of tears, and heard him stammering:
"Oh, mother, mother darling! . . . My dear, dear mother! . . ."
CHAPTER VII
FRANÇOIS AND STÉPHANE
Long the mother and son remained thus, kneeling against the wall that divided them, yet as close together as though they were able to see each other with their frenzied eyes and to mingle their tears and kisses. They spoke both at once, asking each other questions and answering them at random. They were in a transport of delight. The life of each flowed over into the other's life and became swallowed up in it. No power on earth could now dissolve their union or break the bonds of love and confidence which unite mothers and sons.
"Yes, All's Well, old man," said François, "you may sit up as much and as long as you like. We are really crying this time . . . and you will be the first to get tired, for one doesn't mind shedding such tears as these, does one, mother?"
As for Véronique, her mind retained not a vestige of the terrible visions which had dismayed it. Her son a murderer, her son killing and massacring people: she no longer admitted any of that. She did not even admit the excuse of madness. Everything would be explained in some other way which she was not even in a hurry to understand. She thought only of her son. He was there. His eyes saw her through the wall. His heart beat against hers. He lived; and he was the same gentle, affectionate, pure and charming child that her maternal dreams had pictured.
"My son, my son!" she kept on repeating, as though she could not utter those marvellous words often enough. "My son, it's you, it's you! I believed you dead, a thousand times dead, more dead than it is possible to be . . . . And you are alive! And you are here! And I am touching you! O Heaven, can it be true! I have a son . . . and my son is alive! . . ."