“Was it part of the boy’s madness to repeat the words which still tormented Romayne?” Stella asked if he ever spoke of the duel.

“Never!  He seems to have lost all memory of it.  We only heard, this morning, one or two unconnected words—­something about a woman, and then more that appeared to allude to some person’s death.  Last night I was with him when he went to bed, and I found that he had something to conceal from me.  He let me fold all his clothes, as usual, except his waistcoat—­and that he snatched away from me, and put it under his pillow.  We have no hope of being able to examine the waistcoat without his knowledge.  His sleep is like the sleep of a dog; if you only approach him, he wakes instantly.  Forgive me for troubling you with these trifling details, only interesting to ourselves.  You will at least understand the constant anxiety that we suffer.”

“In your unhappy position,” said Stella, “I should try to resign myself to parting with him—­I mean to placing him under medical care.”

The mother’s face saddened.  “I have inquired about it,” she answered.  “He must pass a night in the workhouse before he can be received as a pauper lunatic in a public asylum.  Oh, my dear, I am afraid there is some pride still left in me!  He is my only son now; his father was a General in the French army; I was brought up among people of good blood and breeding—­I can’t take my own boy to the workhouse!”

Stella understood her.  “I feel for you with all my heart,” she said.  “Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under skillful and kind control—­and let me, do let me, open the pocketbook again.”

The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook.  “Perhaps,” Stella persisted, “you don’t know of a private asylum that would satisfy you?”

“My dear, I do know of such a place!  The good doctor who attended my husband in his last illness told me of it.  A friend of his receives a certain number of poor people into his house, and charges no more than the cost of maintaining them.  An unattainable sum to me! There is the temptation that I spoke of.  The help of a few pounds I might accept, if I fell ill, because I might afterward pay it back.  But a larger sum—­never!”

She rose, as if to end the interview.  Stella tried every means of persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain.  The friendly dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they had not both been silenced by another interruption from the next room.

This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome.  The poor boy was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or flageolet.  “Now he is happy!” said the mother.  “He is a born musician; do come and see him!” An idea struck Stella.  She overcame the inveterate reluctance in her to see the boy so fatally associated with the misery of Romayne’s life.  As Madame Marillac led the way to the door of communication between the rooms, she quickly took from her pocketbook the bank-notes with which she had provided herself, and folded them so that they could be easily concealed in her hand.