She bowed her head.
“I was going,” she answered. “I—I am going.”
“But you must go at once,” he cried excitedly. “Do you know what is in there?” and he pointed towards the bedroom.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, “I know.”
“Then go,” he cried. “As it is you have risked too much.”
She lifted up her head and looked at him. There was a new-born note in her voice, a tremulous note of joy in the midst of sorrow. It was of her he was thinking!
“And you?” she said. “You have come and remained.”
“She is my mother,” he answered. “God knows it was the least I could have done.”
Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we beheld a new and yet more startling transformation. When she spoke there was no reproach in her voice, but triumph. Antoinette undid her veil.
“Yes, she is your mother,” she answered; “but for many years she has been my friend. I will go to her. She cannot forbid me now. Hélène has been with her,” she said, turning to where the Vicomtesse stood watching her intently. “Hélène has been with her. And shall I, who have longed to see her these many years, leave her now?”