It was Agatha Larochejaquelin.  She and her father had, by slow stages, reached St. Florent in safety; and, after having seen him at rest, and spoken a word to her brother, her first care had been to inquire after the mother of Cathelineau.  She had been told of her solitary state, and of her stubborn resolution to remain at St. Florent, and she determined to offer her any aid in her power, as a duty due to the memory of him, with whom she had been, for a short time, so strangely connected.

The old woman rose mechanically, and made a slight obeisance as she saw Agatha’s commanding figure, and then reseating herself, hastily recommenced her work, as though she had forgotten herself, in having been thus far courteous to her guest.

“I have come to express my esteem and respect to the mother of Cathelineau,” said Agatha, as soon as she found herself inside the cottage.  “I knew and valued your son, and I shall be glad to know his mother.  Was not the brave Cathelineau your son, my friend?” she added, seeing that the old woman stared at her, as though she did not as yet comprehend the object of her visit.

“My name is Francoise Cathelineau,” said the sybil, “and Jacques Cathelineau was my son.”

“And proud you may be to have been his mother.  He was a great and good man:  he was trusted and loved by all La Vendee.  No one was so beloved by the poor as he was; no one was so entirely trusted by the rich and great.”

“I wish that the rich and great had left him as they found him.  It would be well for him and me this morning, if he had not so entirely trusted them.”

“His death was a noble death.  He died for the throne which he honoured, and loved so loyally; and his name will be honoured in Poitou, aye, and in all France, as long as the names of the great and the good are remembered.  It must be a bitter thing to lose an only son, but his dearest friends should not regret him in such a cause.”

“Dearest friends!  What do you know of his dearest friends?  How can you tell what his dearest friends may feel about it?”

“I know what I feel myself.  Perhaps I cannot judge of all a mother’s agony in losing her son; but I may truly say, that of those who knew Cathelineau, none valued him more than I did.”

“Valued him!  Yes, you valued him as you would a war-horse, or a strong tower, but you did not love him.  He was not of your race, or breed.  His hands were hard with toil, his hair was rough, and his voice was harsh with the night air.  The breath of the labouring poor is noisome in the nostrils of the rich.  His garments smelt of industry, and his awkward gait told tales of his humble trade.  You did not love him:  such as you could not have loved a man like him.  You have come here to bid me to forget my son, and you think it easy for me to do so, because you and his noble friends have forgotten him.  You are welcome, Mademoiselle, but you might have saved yourself the trouble.”