He sat down in an armchair without her seeing him;
but he sprang up with a cold chill running through him as he heard her
say, in a voice broken with sobs,--

"Will he forgive me?"

"What is it, mother?" he exclaimed, shocked at the stricken face of the
poor woman, and thinking the words must mean the delirium that precedes
death.

"Ah, Joseph! can you pardon me, my child?" she cried.

"For what?" he said.

"I have never loved you as you deserved to be loved."

"Oh, what an accusation!" he cried. "Not loved me? For seven years have
we not lived alone together? All these seven years have you not taken
care of me and done everything for me? Do I not see you every day,--hear
your voice? Are you not the gentle and indulgent companion of my
miserable life? You don't understand painting?--Ah! but that's a gift
not always given. I was saying to Grassou only yesterday: 'What comforts
me in the midst of my trials is that I have such a good mother. She is
all that an artist's wife should be; she sees to everything; she takes
care of my material wants without ever troubling or worrying me.'"

"No, Joseph, no; you have loved me, but I have not returned you love for
love. Ah! would that I could live a little longer--Give me your hand."

Agathe took her son's hand, kissed it, held it on her heart, and
looked in his face a long time,--letting him see the azure of her eyes
resplendent with a tenderness she had hitherto bestowed on Philippe
only. The painter, well fitted to judge of expression, was so struck by
the change, and saw so plainly how the heart of his mother had opened to
him, that he took her in his arms, and held her for some moments to his
heart, crying out like one beside himself,--"My mother! oh, my mother!"

"Ah! I feel that I am forgiven!" she said. "God will confirm the child's
pardon of its mother."

"You must be calm: don't torment yourself; hear me. I feel myself loved
enough in this one moment for all the past," he said, as he laid her
back upon the pillows.

During the two weeks' struggle between life and death, there glowed
such love in every look and gesture and impulse of the soul of the pious
creature, that each effusion of her feelings seemed like the expression
of a lifetime. The mother thought only of her son; she herself counted
for nothing; sustained by love, she was unaware of her sufferings.
D'Arthez, Michel Chrestien, Fulgence Ridal, Pierre Grassou, and Bianchon
often kept Joseph company