About midnight, she started up, wide-awake, and listened. There was a low, stealthy sound, as of a door being softly opened. Could her son have changed his mind, and come home again? Some one was certainly in his room. She stepped out of bed, and listened keenly. There was a faint noise like the rattle of a latch or lock, and then a soft step retreating.
“It is he come back!” she thought joyfully; and, even in thinking so, was smitten by a wild and sudden fear. She slipped on a dressing-gown and sandals, and hurried toward the door. “My son!” she said breathlessly as she opened it.
Faintly seen in the dim light, a man’s form was leaving the room by the entry. A shawl or cloak wrapped him from head to foot, and he held a little chest in his hand. In that chest F. Chevreuse kept his money.
All personal fear deserted his mother’s heart at that sight. She thought only that the fruit of her son’s long labors was being carried away under her eyes, and that, after the brief joy of his success, he would come home to bitterness and disappointment.
She ran after the retreating figure, and caught it by the arm. “Shame! shame!” she cried. “It is the money of the poor. It belongs to God. Leave it, in God’s name.”
The man bent down, and wrapped his form still more closely from recognition, as he wrenched himself loose. But while forced to let go his arm, she caught at the casket he held, and clung with all her strength, calling for help.
“Let go!” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “Let go, or I shall do you harm!”
As she still clung and cried for help, they stood at the head of the stairs leading to the basement of the house. Steps were heard below, and Jane’s voice calling Andrew, and screaming from the window.
The man made one more fierce effort to free himself. Drawing back from the stairs, he turned quickly, and threw himself forward again. There was a sharp cry, “My son!” and a fall. Then a fainter cry, “My God!” and then silence.