“I swear to build a chapel to Saint-Jean and Saint-Etienne, the patrons of my wife and son, and to found one hundred masses in honor of the Virgin, if God and the saints will restore to me the affection of my son, the Duc de Nivron, here present.”

He remained on his knees in deep humility with clasped hands, praying.  Finding that his son, the hope of his name, still did not come to him, great tears rose in his eyes, dry so long, and rolled down his withered cheeks.  At this moment, Etienne, hearing no further sounds, glided to the opening of his grotto like a young adder craving the sun.  He saw the tears of the stricken old man, he recognized the signs of a true grief, and, seizing his father’s hand, he kissed him, saying in the voice of an angel:—­

“Oh, mother! forgive me!”

In the fever of his happiness the old duke lifted his feeble offspring in his arms and carried him, trembling like an abducted girl, toward the castle.  As he felt the palpitation of his son’s body he strove to reassure him, kissing him with all the caution he might have shown in touching a delicate flower; and speaking in the gentlest tones he had ever in his life used, in order to soothe him.

“God’s truth! you are like my poor Jeanne, dear child!” he said.  “Teach me what would give you pleasure, and I will give you all you can desire.  Grow strong! be well!  I will show you how to ride a mare as pretty and gentle as yourself.  Nothing shall ever thwart or trouble you.  Tete-Dieu! all things bow to me as the reeds to the wind.  I give you unlimited power.  I bow to you myself as the god of the family.”

The father carried his son into the lordly chamber where the mother’s sad existence had been spent.  Etienne turned away and leaned against the window from which his mother was wont to make him signals announcing the departure of his persecutor, who now, without his knowing why, had become his slave, like those gigantic genii which the power of a fairy places at the order of a young prince.  That fairy was Feudality.  Beholding once more the melancholy room where his eyes were accustomed to contemplate the ocean, tears came into those eyes; recollections of his long misery, mingled with melodious memories of the pleasures he had had in the only love that was granted to him, maternal love, all rushed together upon his heart and developed there, like a poem at once terrible and delicious.  The emotions of this youth, accustomed to live in contemplations of ecstasy as others in the excitements of the world, resembled none of the habitual emotions of mankind.

“Will he live?” said the old man, amazed at the fragility of his heir, and holding his breath as he leaned over him.

“I can live only here,” replied Etienne, who had heard him, simply.

“Well, then, this room shall be yours, my child.”

“What is that noise?” asked the young man, hearing the retainers of the castle who were gathering in the guard-room, whither the duke had summoned them to present his son.