Before a word could be spoken by any one else in the
room, a low wailing cry of "My mistress! my dear, dear mistress!"
directed all eyes first on the old man Dubois, then on Madame
Danville.
She had been leaning against the wall, before Lomaque began to
speak; but she stood perfectly upright now. She neither spoke nor
moved. Not one of the light gaudy ribbons flaunting on her
disordered head-dress so much as trembled. The old servant Dubois
was crouched on his knees at her side, kissing her cold right
hand, chafing it in his, reiterating his faint, mournful cry,
"Oh! my mistress! my dear, dear mistress!" but she did not appear
to know that he was near her. It was only when her son advanced a
step or two toward her that she seemed to awaken suddenly from
that death-trance of mental pain. Then she slowly raised the hand
that was free, and waved him back from her. He stopped in
obedience to the gesture, and endeavored to speak. She waved her
hand again, and the deathly stillness of her face began to grow
troubled. Her lips moved a little--she spoke.
"Oblige me, sir, for the last time, by keeping silence. You and I
have henceforth nothing to say to each other. I am the daughter
of a race of nobles, and the widow of a man of honor. You are a
traitor and a false witness--a thing from which all true men and
true women turn with contempt. I renounce you! Publicly, in the
presence of these gentlemen, I say it--I have no son.
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