Her mother-heart had guessed. Was there any other happiness that could be given her but to see her children?
And, raising herself a little, she received in her arms Alexander and Tekla, who, brought to the threshold of the door by Vera, had heard her cry and ran to her. Pressing them to her heart, and devouring them with kisses, covering them with tears, caressing them with her smiles, she repeated:
"My son—my daughter. Thank God!"
She held them from her a little—oh! only the length of her arms—to see them better for a moment or two, then snatched them back to her heart, raining on them again tears and kisses and a thousand endearments, to which the children replied only by their kisses, their tears, their tenderness, and one word: "Mamma."
Great as was the happiness of the poor mother, and on account indeed of the fullness of her joy, Mme. Daubrel thought it prudent to put an end to so touching a scene.
"You promised me to be good and calm," she said to Lise, calling Alexander and Tekla from her with a look.
"Already?" murmured Mme. Meyrin, who understood. "You want to take them from me already?"
"No," said Marthe; "but you must have a little rest. They shall not leave the house."
"I promise they shall not, Madame la Comtesse," said Soublaieff's daughter, taking the children by the hand.
"Is it you, Vera? Forgive me; I could see only them. Let Marthe take them, and you come here to me, while I can still speak."