Andre, her two sons, Madeleine, all were forgotten in this new-found affection.

Raoul continued in tender tones: 

“Only yesterday I discovered that my uncle had been to demand for me a few crumbs of your wealth.  Why did he take such a step?  I am poor, it is true, very poor; but I am too familiar with poverty to bemoan it.  I have a clear brain and willing hands:  that is fortune enough for a young man.  You are very rich.  What is that to me?  Keep all your fortune, my beloved mother; but do not repel my affection; let me love you.  Promise me that this first kiss shall not be the last.  No one will ever know of my new-found happiness; not by word or deed will I do aught to let the world suspect that I possess this great joy.”

And Mme. Fauvel had dreaded this son!  Ah, how bitterly did she now reproach herself for not having flown to meet him the instant she heard that he was living!

She questioned him regarding the past; she wished to know how he had lived, what he had been doing.

He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had been that of every poor boy, who had nothing to look forward to but a life of labor and privation.

The farmer’s wife who had brought him up was a kind-hearted woman, and had always treated him with affection.  She had even given him an education superior to his condition in life, because, as she always said, he would make himself a great name, and attain to wealth, if he were taught.

When about sixteen years of age, she procured him a situation in a banking-house; and he was getting a salary, which, though small, was enough to support him and supply a few luxuries for his adopted mother.

One day a stranger came to him and said: 

“I am your father:  come with me.”

Since then nothing was wanting to his happiness, save a mother’s tenderness.  He had suffered but one great sorrow, and that was the day when Gaston de Clameran, his father, had died in his arms.

“But now,” he said, “all is forgotten, that one sorrow is forgotten in my present happiness.  Now that I see you and possess your love, I forget the past, and ask for nothing more.”

Mme. Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, and was startled when Raoul exclaimed: 

“Why, it is seven o’clock!”

Seven o’clock!  What would her family think of this long absence?  Her husband must be even now awaiting dinner.

“Shall I see you again, mother?” asked Raoul in a beseeching tone, as they were about to separate.

“Oh, yes!” she replied, fondly, “yes, often; every day, to-morrow.”

But now, for the first time since her marriage, Mme. Fauvel perceived that she was not mistress of her actions.  Never before had she had occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.

She left her heart and soul behind her in the Hotel du Louvre, where she had just found her son.  She was compelled to leave him, to undergo the intolerable agony of composing her face to conceal this great happiness, which had changed her whole life and being.  She was angry with fate because she could not remain with her first-born son.