That gift of laughter of his seemed utterly extinguished.  For once there was no gleam of humour in those dark eyes, as they continued to consider her with that queer stare of scrutiny.  And yet, though his gaze was sombre, his thoughts were not.  With his cruelly true mental vision which pierced through shams, and his capacity for detached observation — which properly applied might have carried him very far, indeed — he perceived the grotesqueness, the artificiality of the emotion which in that moment he experienced, but by which he refused to be possessed.  It sprang entirely from the consciousness that she was his mother; as if, all things considered, the more or less accidental fact that she had brought him into the world could establish between them any real bond at this time of day!  The motherhood that bears and forsakes is less than animal.  He had considered this; he had been given ample leisure in which to consider it during those long, turbulent hours in which he had been forced to wait, because it would have been almost impossible to have won across that seething city, and certainly unwise to have attempted so to do.

He had reached the conclusion that by consenting to go to her rescue at such a time he stood committed to a piece of purely sentimental quixotry.  The quittances which the Mayor of Meudon had exacted from him before he would issue the necessary safe-conducts placed the whole of his future, perhaps his very life, in jeopardy.  And he had consented to do this not for the sake of a reality, but out of regard for an idea — he who all his life had avoided the false lure of worthless and hollow sentimentality.

Thus thought Andre-Louis as he considered her now so searchingly, finding it, naturally enough, a matter of extraordinary interest to look consciously upon his mother for the first time at the age of eight-and-twenty.

From her he looked at last at Jacques, who remained at attention, waiting by the open door.

“Could we be alone, madame?” he asked her.

She waved the footman away, and the door closed.  In agitated silence, unquestioning, she waited for him to account for his presence there at so extraordinary a time.

“Rougane could not return,” he informed her shortly.  “At M. de Kercadiou’s request, I come instead.”

“You!  You are sent to rescue us!” The note of amazement in her voice was stronger than that of het relief.

“That, and to make your acquaintance, madame.”

“To make my acquaintance?  But what do you mean, Andre-Louis?”

“This letter from M. de Kercadiou will tell you.”  Intrigued by his odd words and odder manner, she took the folded sheet.  She broke the seal with shaking hands, and with shaking hands approached the written page to the light.  Her eyes grew troubled as she read; the shaking of her hands increased, and midway through that reading a moan escaped her.  One glance that was almost