Emile had been an only son, a paragon of manly virtues, the keeper of his mother's soul. There had come a great shock and a great disgrace that had evidently conspired to unseat her reason. She spoke indirectly of them, as a child marked by some prenatal influence recoils at contact with the cause of its infirmity. Then, it seemed, Madelon had come to watch over and to comfort her, filling a son's place with a daughter's devotion. There had been persecution, want, the loss of property through an enemy of whom the mother spoke ramblingly. Van Dam recollected the dried-up villain in the closet down the hall, and felt a flame of rage mount through him. He longed mightily to ask questions, to run the matter down without delay, but dared not, for he was in momentary dread that the imposture would be discovered. So he spoke as infrequently as possible, and substituted for words those gentle caresses and endearing attentions that are far more welcome to a starving heart. Madelon remained close by, adding a grain of comfort and encouragement now and then, and regarding Van Dam with a strangely bewildered attention.
But the mother was far from strong. Her excitement had wearied her, and now, with the relaxation of contentment, fatigue stole over her. She lay back among the soft cushions, her restless hands moving more slowly, her gentle voice stilled. She dozed at last, her face serene and beatific.
Madelon motioned to Van Dam, and he rose. Noiselessly they stole across the hall and into the drawing-room, leaving the placid figure in repose.
She turned upon him, saying, doubtfully: "With every moment you surprise me, Emile. You are not at all what I expected, not at all the cousin of whom I have heard so much! Even in looks you seem—how shall I say it?—strange."
"Are you pleased or disappointed?"
"Ah! Pleased! I—I feel that I must weep. You are so brave and strong, and yet so gentle, so sweet! Perhaps only a mother recognizes the good that is in one. That scene in yonder was very—touching. I—I can hardly credit my ears and my eyes."
"It's plain you have a wrong idea of me. I'm not at all a bad sort."
"So I begin to believe, in spite of everything. La! It is confusing. I am all in a whirl." She uttered a hesitating, silvery little laugh that proved her embarrassment.
"We must speak quickly," he said. "I am also greatly confused. You have opened up a great possibility for me, Madelon. The whole world is suddenly different. I—I think I am in love with you, my little cousin."
She flung out her hand to check him, crying: "No, no! I could never love you!"