“God forbid that I should ask you to forget him.  I can never forget him myself.”

“Would that I could—­would that I could!  He left me that morning when I bade him to stay, though I went down on my knees to ask it as a favour.  He was a stubborn self-willed man, and he went his own way.  He never passed another night under his mother’s roof; he never again heard his mother’s blessing.  I wish I could forget him.  Indeed, indeed, I wish I could!” and the old woman swayed herself backwards and forwards in her chair, repeating the wish, as though she did not know that any one was with her in the cottage.

Agatha hardly knew what to say to the strange woman before her, or how to soften her bitterness of spirit.  She had felt an unaccountable attraction to Cathelineau’s mother.  She had imagined that she could speak to her of her son with affection and warmth, though she could not do so to any other living soul She had flattered herself that she should have a melancholy pleasure in talking of his death, and in assuring his aged mother that she had soothed her son’s last hours, and given him, in his dying moments, that care which can only be given by the hands of a woman.  She now felt herself repulsed, and learnt that the short career of glory which had united her with Cathelineau, had severed him from his mother.  Nevertheless her heart yearned to the old woman; she still hoped that, if she could touch the right cord, she might find her way to the mother’s heart.

“I thought, perhaps,” she said, “you would be glad to hear some tidings of his last moments; and as I was with him when he died, I have come to tell you that his death was that of a Christian, who hoped everything from the merits of his Saviour.”

“May his soul rest in peace,” said the mother, crossing herself, and mechanically putting her hands to her beads.  “May his soul rest in peace.  And you were with him when he died, Mademoiselle, were you?”

“I knelt at his bed-side as the breath passed from his body.”

“It would have been better for him had one of his own degree been there:  not that I doubt you did the duty of a good neighbour, as well as it might be done by one like you.  Might I ask you your name, lady?”

“My name is Agatha Larochejaquelin.”

“Larochejaquelin!  I’m sorry for it.  It was that name that first led Jacques into trouble:  it was young Larochejaquelin that first made my son a soldier.  I will not blame you, for you say you were kind to him at a time when men most want kindness; but, I wish that neither I nor he had ever heard your name.”

“You are wrong there, my friend.  It was Cathelineau made a soldier of my brother, not my brother who made a soldier of him.  Henri Larochejaquelin was only a follower of Cathelineau.”

“A Marquis obey a poor postillion!  Yes, you stuffed him full with such nonsense as that!  You made him fancy himself a General!  You cannot fool me so easily.  My son was not a companion for noble men and noble ladies.  A wise man will never consort with those who are above him in degree.”