"I am sorry to have frightened you, my dear," she said."In your happy country such a dreadful death as my son's is unknown.I am obliged to mention it, or you might not understand what I have still to say.Perhaps I had better not go on?"Stella roused herself."Yes! yes!" she answered, eagerly."Pray go on!""My son in the next room," the widow resumed, "is only fourteen years old.It has pleased God sorely to afflict a harmless creature.He has not been in his right mind since--since the miserable day when he followed the duelists, and saw his brother's death.Oh! you are turning pale! How thoughtless, how cruel of me! I ought to have remembered that such horrors as these have never overshadowed your happy life!"Struggling to recover her self-control, Stella tried to reassure Madame Marillac by a gesture.The voice which she had heard in the next room was--as she now knew--the voice that haunted Romayne.Not the words that had pleaded hunger and called for bread--but those other words, "Assassin! assassin! where are you?"--rang in her ears.She entreated Madame Marillac to break the unendurable interval of silence.The widow's calm voice had a soothing influence which she was eager to feel."Go on!" she repeated."Pray go on!""I ought not to lay all the blame of my boy's affliction on the duel," said Madame Marillac."In childhood, his mind never grew with his bodily growth.His brother's death may have only hurried the result which was sooner or later but too sure to come.You need feel no fear of him.He is never violent--and he is the most beautiful of my children.Would you like to see him?""No! I would rather hear you speak of him.Is he not conscious of his own misfortune?""For weeks together, Stella--I am sure I may call you Stella?--he is quite calm; you would see no difference outwardly between him and other boys.Unhappily, it is just at those times that a spirit of impatience seems to possess him.He watches his opportunity, and, however careful we may be, he is cunning enough to escape our vigilance.""Do you mean that he leaves you and his sisters?""Yes, that is what I mean.For nearly two months past he has been away from us.Yesterday only, his return relieved us from a state of suspense which I cannot attempt to describe.We don't know where he has been, or in the company of what persons he has passed the time of his absense.No persuasion will induce him to spe ak to us on the subject.This morning we listened while he was talking to himself.""Was it part of the boy's madness to repeat the words which still tormented Romayne?" Stella asked if he ever spoke of the duel.
"Never! He seems to have lost all memory of it.We only heard, this morning, one or two unconnected words--something about a woman, and then more that appeared to allude to some person's death.Last night I was with him when he went to bed, and I found that he had something to conceal from me.He let me fold all his clothes, as usual, except his waistcoat--and that he snatched away from me, and put it under his pillow.We have no hope of being able to examine the waistcoat without his knowledge.His sleep is like the sleep of a dog; if you only approach him, he wakes instantly.Forgive me for troubling you with these trifling details, only interesting to ourselves.You will at least understand the constant anxiety that we suffer.""In your unhappy position," said Stella, "I should try to resign myself to parting with him--I mean to placing him under medical care."The mother's face saddened."I have inquired about it," she answered."He must pass a night in the workhouse before he can be received as a pauper lunatic in a public asylum.Oh, my dear, Iam afraid there is some pride still left in me! He is my only son now; his father was a General in the French army; I was brought up among people of good blood and breeding--I can't take my own boy to the workhouse!"Stella understood her."I feel for you with all my heart," she said."Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under skillful and kind control--and let me, do let me, open the pocketbook again."The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook.
"Perhaps," Stella persisted, "you don't know of a private asylum that would satisfy you?""My dear, I do know of such a place! The good doctor who attended my husband in his last illness told me of it.A friend of his receives a certain number of poor people into his house, and charges no more than the cost of maintaining them.An unattainable sum to _me!_ There is the temptation that I spoke of.The help of a few pounds I might accept, if I fell ill, because I might afterward pay it back.But a larger sum--never!"She rose, as if to end the interview.Stella tried every means of persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain.The friendly dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they had not both been silenced by another interruption from the next room.
This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome.The poor boy was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or flageolet."Now he is happy!" said the mother."He is a born musician; do come and see him!" An idea struck Stella.She overcame the inveterate reluctance in her to see the boy so fatally associated with the misery of Romayne's life.As Madame Marillac led the way to the door of communication between the rooms, she quickly took from her pocketbook the bank-notes with which she had provided herself, and folded them so that they could be easily concealed in her hand.
She followed the widow into the little room.
