“Oh, Raoul, my dear son,” cried Mme. Fauvel in an agony of terror, “explain these dreadful words; am I not your mother?  Tell me what distresses you; I am ready to hear the worst.”

He appeared to hesitate, as if afraid to crush his mother’s heart by the terrible blow he was about to inflict.  Then in a voice of gloomy despair he replied: 

“I am ruined.”

“Ruined?”

“Yes, ruined; and I have nothing more to expect or hope for.  I am dishonored, and all through my own fault; no one is to be blamed but myself.”

“Raoul!”

“It is the sad truth, my poor mother; but fear nothing:  I shall not trail in the dust the name which you bestowed upon me.  I will at least have the courage not to survive my dishonor.  Come, mother, don’t pity me, or distress yourself; I am one of those miserable beings fated to find no peace save in the arms of death.  I came into the world with misfortune stamped upon my brow.  Was not my birth a shame and disgrace to you?  Did not the memory of my existence haunt you day and night, filling your soul with remorse?  And now, when I am restored to you after many years’ separation, do I not prove to be a bitter curse instead of a blessing?”

“Ungrateful boy!  Have I ever reproached you?”

“Never!  Your poor Raoul will die with your beloved name on his lips; his last words a prayer to Heaven to heap blessings upon your head, and reward your long-suffering devotion.”

“Die?  You die, my son!”

“It must be, my dear mother; honor compels it.  I am condemned by judges from whose decision no appeal can be taken—­my conscience and my will.”

An hour ago, Mme. Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul had made her suffer all the torments that a woman could endure; but now she felt that all her former troubles were nothing compared with her present agony.

“My God!  Raoul, what have you been doing?”

“Money was intrusted to me:  I gambled and lost it.”

“Was it a large sum?”

“No; but more than I can replace.  My poor mother, have I not taken everything from you?  Did you not give me your last jewel?”

“But M. de Clameran is rich.  He placed his fortune at my disposal.  I will order the carriage, and go to him.”

“But M. de Clameran is absent, and will not return to Paris until next week; and if I do not have the money this evening, I am lost.  Alas!  I have thought deeply, and, although it is hard to die so young, still fate wills it so.”

He pulled a pistol from his pocket, and, with a forced smile, said: 

“This will settle everything.”

Mme. Fauvel was too excited and frightened to reflect upon the horror of Raoul’s behavior, and that these wild threats were a last resort for obtaining money.  Forgetful of the past, careless of the future, her every thought concentrated upon the present, she comprehended but one fact:  that her son was about to commit suicide, and that she was powerless to prevent the fearful deed.