She struggled to be released.  Holding her firmly, he could find only words to say again and again: 

“Mother, mother, mother!” And through all her efforts to free herself she was saying: 

“No, no.  I am not your mother now, poor boy—­good-bye.”

It struck him clearly that if he let her go now he should never see her again; lifting her up in his arms he carried her to an arm-chair, forced her into it, and kneeling down in front of her barred her in with his arms.

“You shall not quit this spot, mother.  I love you and I will keep you!  I will keep you always—­I love you and you are mine.”

She murmured in a dejected tone: 

“No, my poor boy, it is impossible.  You weep to-night, but to-morrow you would turn me out of the house.  You, even you, could not forgive me.”

He replied:  “I?  I?  How little you know me!” with such a burst of genuine affection that, with a cry, she seized his head by the hair with both hands, and dragging him violently to her kissed him distractedly all over his face.

Then she sat still, her cheek against his, feeling the warmth of his skin through his beard, and she whispered in his ear:  “No, my little Jean, you would not forgive me to-morrow.  You think so, but you deceive yourself.  You have forgiven me this evening, and that forgiveness has saved my life; but you must never see me again.”

And he repeated, clasping her in his arms: 

“Mother, do not say that.”

“Yes, my child, I must go away.  I do not know where, nor how I shall set about it, nor what I shall do; but it must be done.  I could never look at you, nor kiss you, do you understand?”

Then he in his turn spoke into her ear: 

“My little mother, you are to stay, because I insist, because I want you.  And you must pledge your word to obey me, now, at once.”

“No, my child.”

“Yes, mother, you must; do you hear?  You must.”

“No, my child, it is impossible.  It would be condemning us all to the tortures of hell.  I know what that torment is; I have known it this month past.  Your feelings are touched now, but when that is over, when you look on me as Pierre does, when you remember what I have told you—­oh, my Jean, think—­think—­I am your mother!”

“I will not let you leave me, mother.  I have no one but you.”

“But think, my son, we can never see each other again without both of us blushing, without my feeling that I must die of shame, without my eyes falling before yours.”

“But it is not so, mother.”

“Yes, yes, yes, it is so!  Oh, I have understood all your poor brother’s struggles, believe me!  All—­from the very first day.  Now, when I hear his step in the house my heart beats as if it would burst, when I hear his voice I am ready to faint.  I still had you; now I have you no longer.  Oh, my little Jean!  Do you think I could live between you two?”