“Raoul!”

At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started and tottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.

“Yes, Raoul,” he cried, “Raoul, who would a thousand times rather die than cause his mother a moment’s pain; Raoul, who would shed his life’s blood to spare her one tear.”

She made no attempt to struggle against nature’s yearnings; her longing to clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratified at all costs.

She opened her arms, and Raoul sprang forward with a cry of joy: 

“Mother! my blessed mother!  Thanks be to God for this first kiss!”

Alas! this was the sad truth.  The deserted child had never been blest by a mother’s kiss.  This dear son whom she had never seen before, had been taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother’s blessing, a mother’s embrace.  After twenty years waiting, should it be denied him now?

But joy so great, following upon so many contending emotions, was more than the excited mother could bear; she sank back in her chair almost fainting, and with distended eyes gazed in a bewildered, eager way upon her long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet.

With tenderness she stroked the soft chestnut curls, and drank in the tenderness of his soft dark eyes, and expressive mouth, as he murmured words of filial affection in her craving ear.

“Oh, mother!” he said, “words cannot describe my feelings of pain and anguish upon hearing that my uncle had dared to threaten you.  He threaten you!  He repents already of his cruelty; he did not know you as I do.  Yes, my mother, I have known you for a long, long time.  Often have my father and I hovered around your happy home to catch a glimpse of you through the window.  When you passed by in your carriage, he would say to me, ‘There is your mother, Raoul!’ To look upon you was our greatest joy.  When we knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the door to see you enter, in your satin and diamonds.  How often have I followed your fast horses to see you descend from the carriage and enter wealthy doors, which I could never hope to penetrate!  And how my noble father loved you always!  When he told his brother to apply to you in my behalf, he was unconscious of what he said; his mind was wandering.”

Tears, the sweetest tears she had ever shed, coursed down Mme. Fauvel’s cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones of Raoul’s voice.

This voice was so like Gaston’s, that she seemed once more to be listening to the lover of her almost forgotten youth.

She was living over again those stolen meetings, those long hours of bliss, when Gaston was at her side, as they sat and watched the river rippling beneath the trees.

It seemed only yesterday that Gaston had pressed her to his faithful heart; she saw him still saying gently: 

“In three years, Valentine!  Wait for me!”