Madame de Tecle did not once interrupt her during this cruel recital. She only imprinted a kiss on her hair from time to time. The young Countess, who did not dare to raise her eyes to her, as if she were ashamed of another’s crime, might have imagined that she had exaggerated the gravity of her misfortune, since her mother had received the confidence with so much calmness. But the calmness of Madame de Tecle at this terrible moment was that of the martyrs; for all that could have been suffered by the Christians under the claws of the tiger, or on the rack of the torturer, this mother was suffering at the hands of her best-beloved daughter. Her beautiful pale face--her large eyes upturned to heaven, like those that artists give to the pure victims kneeling in the Roman circus--seemed to ask God whether He really had any consolation for such torture.
When she had heard all, she summoned strength to smile at her daughter, who at last looked up to her with an expression of timid uncertainty--embracing her more tightly still.
“Well, my darling,” said she, at last, “it is a great affliction, it is true. You are right, notwithstanding; there is nothing to despair of.”
“Certainly. There is some inconceivable mystery under all this; but be assured that the evil is not so terrible as it appears.”
“My poor mother! but he has acknowledged it?”
“I am better pleased that he has acknowledged it. That proves he has yet some pride, and that some good is left in his soul. Then, too, he feels very much afflicted--he suffers as much as we. Think of that. Let us think of the future, my darling.”
They clasped each other’s hands, and smiled at each other to restrain the tears which filled the eyes of both. After a few minutes--“I wish much, my child,” said Madame de Tecle, “to repose for half an hour; and then also I wish to arrange my toilet.”
“I will conduct you to your chamber. Oh, I can walk! I feel a great deal better.”
Madame de Camors took her mother’s arm and conducted her as far as the door of the chamber prepared for her. On the threshold she left her.
“Be sensible,” said Madame de Tecle, turning and giving her another smile.
“And you also,” said the young woman, whose voice failed her.