“You speak of name, of fortune,” continued Paul, with an expression of profound melancholy; “what need have I of them. I have by my own sword gained a rank which few men of my age have ever attained—I have acquired a name which is pronounced with blessings by one nation, andi with terror by another. I could, did it so please me, amass a fortune, worthy of being bequeathed to a king. What, then, are your name your fortune, and your rank, to me, if you have nothing else to offer me—if you do not give me that which I have incessantly, and in every position of my life most yearned for—that which I have not the power to create—which God had granted to me, but which misfortune wrested from me—that which you alone can restore to me—a mother!”
“My son!” exclaimed the marchioness, overcome at length, by his tears, and supplicating accent, “my son! my son! my son!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Paul, letting the papers fall into the flames, which speedily consumed them, “ah! that missed appellation has at length escaped your lips—that tender name so long desired, and which I have so unceasingly prayed to hear addressed to me. Merciful heaven! I thank thee.”
The marchioness had fallen back into her chair, and Paul had thrown himself upon his knees, his head leaning upon her bosom. At length the marchioness gently raised him.
“Look at me!” she said; “for twenty years, this is the first tear that has ever escaped my eyelids, give me your hand!”—she placed it upon her heart—“for twenty years this is the first feeling of happiness with which my heart has palpitated. Come to my arms! For twenty years this is the first caress I have either given or received. These twenty years have doubtless been my expiation, since God now pardons me, for he has restored to me the power of weeping, of feeling joy, and has permitted me to embrace my son. Thanks to G-od! and thanks to thee, my son!”
“My mother!” cried Paul, “my beloved mother!”
“And I trembled at the thoughts of seeing you again—I trembled when I did see you—I knew not—I could not have imagined that such feelings still existed in my heart. Oh! I bless thee! I bless thee!”
At that moment, the tolling of the chapel bell was heard: the marchioness shuddered. The funeral hour had arrived. The bodies of the noble Marquis d’Auray and that of the poor man Achard, were about to be returned to earth at the same moment.
“This hour must be consecrated to prayer,” said the marchioness: “I must now leave you.”
“I must sail to-morrow, my mother,” said Paul; “shall I not once more see you?”