“You greatly embarrass me.  And, besides, I know nothing likely to interest you.  What good would it do yourself or your husband to stir up all the dead past?  Take my advice, forget what people may have told you—­you are so sensible and prudent—­”

But she interrupted him, caught hold of his hands, and held them in her warm, quivering grasp.  Never before had she so behaved, forgetting and surrendering herself so passionately.  “I repeat,” said she, “that nobody has anything to fear from me—­neither my husband, nor that girl, nor the child.  Cannot you understand me?  I am simply tormented; I suffer at knowing nothing.  Yes, it seems to me that I shall feel more at ease when I know the truth.  It is for myself that I question you, for my own peace of mind. . . .  Ah! if I could only tell you, if I could tell you!”

He began to divine many things; it was unnecessary for her to be more explicit.  He knew that during the past year she and her husband had been hoping for the advent of a second child, and that none had come.  As a woman, Constance felt no jealousy of Norine, but as a mother she was jealous of her son.  She could not drive the thought of that child from her mind; it ever and ever returned thither like a mocking insult now that her hopes of replacing Maurice were fading fast.  Day by day did she dream more and more passionately of the other woman’s son, wondering where he was, what had become of him, whether he were healthy, and whether he resembled his father.

“I assure you, my dear Mathieu,” she resumed, “that you will really bring me relief by answering me.  Is he alive?  Tell me simply whether he is alive.  But do not tell me a lie.  If he is dead I think that I shall feel calmer.  And yet, good heavens!  I certainly wish him no evil.”

Then Mathieu, who felt deeply touched, told her the simple truth.

“Since you insist on it, for the benefit of your peace of mind, and since it is to remain entirely between us and to have no effect on your home, I see no reason why I should not confide to you what I know.  But that is very little.  The child was left at the Foundling Hospital in my presence.  Since then the mother, having never asked for news, has received none.  I need not add that your husband is equally ignorant, for he always refused to have anything to do with the child.  Is the lad still alive?  Where is he?  Those are things which I cannot tell you.  A long inquiry would be necessary.  If, however, you wish for my opinion, I think it probable that he is dead, for the mortality among these poor cast-off children is very great.”

Constance looked at him fixedly.  “You are telling me the real truth?  You are hiding nothing?” she asked.  And as he began to protest, she went on:  “Yes, yes, I have confidence in you.  And so you believe that he is dead!  Ah! to think of all those children who die, when so many women would be happy to save one, to have one for themselves.  Well, if you haven’t been able to tell me anything positive, you have at least done your best.  Thank you.”