“Be comforted,” said the priest.  “Your punishment is a proof that you will receive pardon.  God chastens his elect.  Woe to those whose misdeeds meet with fortunate success; they will be kneaded again in humanity until they in their turn are sorely punished for simple errors, and are brought to the maturity of celestial fruits.  Your life, my daughter, has been one long error.  You have fallen into the pit which you dug for yourself; we fail ever on the side we have ourselves weakened.  You gave your heart to an unnatural son, in whom you made your glory, and you have misunderstood the child who is your true glory.  You have been so deeply unjust that you never even saw the striking contrast between the brothers.  You owe the comfort of your life to Joseph, while your other son has pillaged you repeatedly.  The poor son, who loves you with no return of equal tenderness, gives you all the comfort that your life has had; the rich son, who never thinks of you, despises you and desires your death—­”

“Oh! no,” she cried.

“Yes,” resumed the priest, “your humble position stands in the way of his proud hopes.  Mother, these are your sins!  Woman, your sorrows and your anguish foretell that you shall know the peace of God.  Your son Joseph is so noble that his tenderness has never been lessened by the injustice your maternal preferences have done him.  Love him now; give him all your heart during your remaining days; pray for him, as I shall pray for you.”

The eyes of the mother, opened by so firm a hand, took in with one retrospective glance the whole course of her life.  Illumined by this flash of light, she saw her involuntary wrong-doing and burst into tears.  The old priest was so deeply moved at the repentance of a being who had sinned solely through ignorance, that he left the room hastily lest she should see his pity.

Joseph returned to his mother’s room about two hours after her confessor had left her.  He had been to a friend to borrow the necessary money to pay his most pressing debts, and he came in on tiptoe, thinking that his mother was asleep.  He sat down in an armchair without her seeing him; but he sprang up with a cold chill running through him as he heard her say, in a voice broken with sobs,—­

“Will he forgive me?”

“What is it, mother?” he exclaimed, shocked at the stricken face of the poor woman, and thinking the words must mean the delirium that precedes death.

“Ah, Joseph! can you pardon me, my child?” she cried.

“For what?” he said.

“I have never loved you as you deserved to be loved.”

“Oh, what an accusation!” he cried.  “Not loved me?  For seven years have we not lived alone together?  All these seven years have you not taken care of me and done everything for me?  Do I not see you every day,—­hear your voice?  Are you not the gentle and indulgent companion of my miserable life?  You don’t understand painting?—­Ah! but that’s a gift not always given.  I was saying to Grassou only yesterday:  ’What comforts me in the midst of my trials is that I have such a good mother.  She is all that an artist’s wife should be; she sees to everything; she takes care of my material wants without ever troubling or worrying me.’”