Already mother and grandmother were in the room.
The poor women had spent the whole evening of agony in the neighboring room, keeping perfectly still, so as not to betray their presence there, with the intention of listening for Lorand's voice: and they had trembled through that last awful scene, of which they could hear every word. When they heard my cry of rage, they could restrain themselves no longer, but rushed in, and threw themselves among the revellers with a cry of "My son, my son."
Everyone rose at their honored presence: this solemn picture, two kneeling women embracing a son snatched from the jaws of death.
The surprising horror had reduced everyone to soberness: all tipsiness, all winy drowsiness, had passed away.
"Lorand, Lorand," sobbed mother, pressing him frantically to her breast, while grandmother, unable to speak or to weep, clutched his hand.
"Oh Lorand, dear...."
But Lorand grasped the two ladies' hands and led them towards me.
"It is him you must embrace, not me: his is the triumph."
Then he caught sight of that sweet angel bowed upon my shoulder, who was still holding my hand in hers: he recollected those words with which Fanny a moment before had betrayed our secret. "This hand is mine"—and he smiled at me.
"Is that the way matters stand? Then you have your reward in your hands, ... and you can leave these two weeping women to me."