nature;
she idolized her children; consequently, during the last six months
she had suffered as never before since her widowhood. Lucien might have
borne the name of Lucien de Rubempre by royal letters patent; he might
have founded the family anew, revived the title, and borne the arms; he
might have made a great name--he had thrown the chance away; nay, he had
fallen into the mire!

For Mme. Chardon the mother was a harder judge than Eve the sister.
When she heard of the bills, she looked upon Lucien as lost. A mother
is often fain to shut her eyes, but she always knows the child that
she held at her breast, the child that has been always with her in the
house; and so when Eve and David discussed Lucien's chances of success
in Paris, and Lucien's mother to all appearance shared Eve's illusions,
in her inmost heart there was a tremor of fear lest David should be
right, for a mother's consciousness bore a witness to the truth of his
words. So well did she know Eve's sensitive nature, that she could not
bring herself to speak of her fears; she was obliged to choke them down
and keep such silence as mothers alone can keep when they know how to
love their children.

And Eve, on her side, had watched her mother, and saw the ravages of
hidden grief with a feeling of dread; her mother was not growing old,
she was failing from day to day. Mother and daughter lived a live
of generous deception, and neither was deceived. The brutal old
vinegrower's speech was the last drop that filled the cup of affliction
to overflowing. The words struck a chill to Mme. Chardon's heart.

"Here is my mother, monsieur," said Eve, and the Abbe, looking up, saw a
white-haired woman with a face as thin and worn as the features of some
aged nun, and yet grown beautiful with the calm and sweet expression
that devout submission gives to the faces of women who walk by the will
of God, as the saying is. Then the Abbe understood the lives of the
mother and daughter, and had no more sympathy left for Lucien; he
shuddered to think of all that the victims had endured.

"Mother," said Eve, drying her eyes as she spoke, "poor Lucien is not
very far away, he is at Marsac."

"And why is he not here?" asked Mme. Chardon.

Then the Abbe told the whole story as Lucien had told it to him--the
misery of the journey, the troubles of the last days in Paris. He
described the poet's agony of mind when he heard of the havoc wrought
at home by his imprudence, and hi