"But there is worse than that!" cried Floriot, rising. "She came back to me and begged for forgiveness. She groveled at my feet and pleaded for mercy! She made me see that I shared the blame of her fall! But my cheap, foolish pride conquered every other feeling—every instinct of pity, every impulse of nobility! And I threw her out into the street!"
The boy straightened up with a sob of anguish.
"And—and—what became—of her?" he panted.
Floriot's left hand went up to his throat as if he felt himself choking. He turned his head away, and with a terrible effort raised his other hand, pointed to the door of the President's room and gasped brokenly:
"She is there! That woman—is—your mother!"
Raymond swayed on his feet and his father's rigid figure swam in a haze before his eyes. His, mother! That woman his mother! In the hundred emotions that swept him in the ghost of a second only one was missing—shame for her stained body and blackened soul. His heart—starved all its life—quivered with a joy that was almost pain at the thought at last it would feel the love of even such a mother, as the lost and parched wanderer in the desert falls with a prayer of thanksgiving at the edge of a brackish pool.
With a choking cry of"Mother!" he stumbled blindly to the door. The instant he rushed into the room, Dr. Chennel and Noel saw what had happened, and the former was in front of him in a stride.
"Be careful!" he warned, in a stern whisper that brought the boy to his senses like a dash of cold water. "Any strong excitement may be too? much for her!"
He gripped Raymond's arm and held him until he saw that he had nearly recovered control of himself, and then, with another whisper of "Remember!" he released him.
"Yes, yes! I understand!" exclaimed Raymond in the same tone, holding himself with a mighty effort. "I'll control myself! She sha'n't know!"
Noel was administering a little more of the stimulant as he advanced. He gave Raymond a warning look as, with a gasp of terror, Jacqueline attempted to rise. The young man seemed not to notice her agitation, and with a bright smile he cried:
"Well, my dear client, are you better?"
"Oh, it's nothing!" Dr. Chennel answered for her. "Just a little fit of the nerves which, after all, is quite natural!"
"That's all right!" cried Raymond, heartily. "I didn't want to leave the court without asking' how you were."
Her eyes ran hungrily over his graceful but muscular figure, and the pale, handsome face.
"You—are—very good!" she murmured, uncertainly.
Noel signalled the doctor with his eyes, and they went out softly, leaving the door ajar. Raymond briskly pulled a chair up close beside his mother's and went on in the same light tone.
"And I couldn't go without thanking you!" he said. She smiled into his face, but there was still a trace of alarm in her eyes.
"Thankingme?" she repeated.
"Of course!" replied Raymond. "Why, I owe my first success to you! To-day has brought me the greatest joy of my life!"
"But if you thank me, what can I say to you?" she asked, her voice trembling with tenderness. He smiled back at her.
"Tell me that you are glad," he suggested She gazed into his eyes with her heart in hers.
"Yes, I am glad—very glad—almost happy!" she said, in a low, vibrant voice. "But I did not dare hope for the happiness that has come to me to-day!"
Her strength did, indeed, seem to be returned rapidly. Her voice was surer, her eyes sparkled, and there was a fleck of color in her cheeks. Raymond felt his lips tremble and he fought with a desire to throw himself into her arms. It was several seconds before he trusted himself to speak. Then:
"I hope I won't tire you," he said, politely. "Before I go, don't you think we might have a little chat? You haven't spoiled me much in that respect, have you?" he added, with a sudden smile. "You are my first client and I hardly know you!"
She reached out and touched his arm in quick apology.
"You must forgive me for having received you so rudely," she said. Raymond laughed.
"You didn't receive me at all, as a matter of fact," he declared. "But I wasn't angry. I said to myself, 'She probably finds me too young, or has no confidence in me, or—or——'" His eyes dropped and in a lower tone he added, "or she doesn't think—she would like me."
He felt a sudden, almost painful pressure on his arm.
"Ah! Don't think that!" she pleaded, quickly. "But I was so sad—so despairingly sad!"
Raymond raised his eyes to her face.
"And now?" he half whispered.
"And now—thanks to you!—I am almost happy!"
"It makes me happy to hear you say so! Do you know," he went on, hitching up his chair in a confidential manner, "I felt the deepest sympathy for you from the first!"
"Really?" she smiled.
"It's a fact!" he declared, with an energetic nod. "From the start; for I was sure you were unhappy, and surer still that you should not have been unhappy. I wanted to console you—to tell you to pluck up your courage—to convince you that I was not only your counsel but your friend—a true and sincere friend!"
"If I had only known—if I had only known!" murmured the woman, with a sharp catch in her voice. It cost Raymond an effort to continue in his bright, boyish tones; but he succeeded.
"I made myself a promise that I would win your case for you," he went on; "that I would work it out with all my might! As you wouldn't give me your secret, I made up my mind I would guess it, and you see—I succeeded! I made the truth clear, and every heart in the court felt for you. Now you are free!—free to go to the son you love so dearly! Promise me," his voice trembled, "promise me that you will not forget me altogether!"
Her eyes were misty with tears and her face quivered.
"Forget you! Forget you!" she cried, brokenly.
Raymond turned his face away.
"I know I shall always remember you!" he said in a low voice, as one making a sacred vow.
With a half-cry, half-sob she struggled to her feet. He had promised to spare her the pain of knowing that he knew her to be a mother, but even that paled beside the agony of feeling his presence within touch of her hands, and knowing that she must never clasp him to her heart.
"I must go—I must go away!" she panted feverishly. But before Raymond could rise, her weakened limbs had collapsed and she sank back into her chair.
"And I cannot!" she moaned, her hands pressed to her eyes.
"Please don't go!" he pleaded, laying his hand lightly on her arm. At the touch of his fingers she straightened up with a gasp.
"Before you go," she said, in a piteous half-whisper, "I should like to give you some little trifle as a keepsake, but I have absolutely nothing. But you can be sure that as long as I live—as long—as my heart beats and—my breath lasts—I will never forget you!"
An impulse that he could not resist moved Raymond to reach out and take her fingers in his.
"Give me your hand!" he said. His voice quivered and the woman could feel him tremble. "Do you remember during the trial just now," he went on unsteadily as he slowly bent toward her, "when I turned toward you, you took my hand and pressed it? I—I could feel your eyes—looking into my very heart! I—I—wanted then—to take you in my arms—and press you to my heart!"
Her wild eyes closed and her body was rigid and tense.
"Will you—won't you—won't you kiss me—mother?" The words rushed out in a sob as he slid from the chair to his knees by her side. With a cry that was more than human and strength that was more than a woman's, she flung her arms around his neck, crushed his dark head to her bosom and rained kisses on his eyes and hair and lips and brow....
"Oh, my Raymond! My darling! My darling boy!" she sobbed again and again, and his face was wet with her tears....
"It is too much! Ah, God! I can't stand this joy! My Raymond! My little laddie!..."
Minute after minute passed and there was no sound but Jacqueline's quick breathing.
"Are you in pain, mother?" he murmured tenderly, trying to lift his head. He could feel against his cheek that the tumultuous beating of her heart suddenly died away to an unsteady flutter.
"No, no, dear!" she whispered, faintly. "Don't go! Don't move! How—did you—know——?"
"Father just told me, mother mine!" he replied, softly, nestling his head into the hollow where it had not lain for twenty-three years. "He told me all that you had suffered. But it is over now. We'll forget those long years of separation—together!"
Her reply was a long, delicious hug and a dozer? soft kisses. There was another silence. Then Raymond spoke, a little timidly:
"Fath—my father is waiting, mother. Won't you see him?"
She smiled down into his upturned face, but there was a strange dimness in her eyes and his voice sounded far away.
"Yes, yes!" came in a faint whisper. "Tell him—to come—quickly!"
He gave her a long kiss, sprang up and ran out into the courtroom. She half-rose and stretched out her hand for the glass of medicine but could not reach it.
"Raymond!" she tried to call, but her lips barely framed the word. There was a roaring in her ears that might have been the roar of the unknown sea, and a mist before her eyes that might have been the mist upon its waters....
Raymond ran in, closely followed by the three older men.
"Hurry, father! She is waiting!"
He stopped. Something in the position of the still figure in the chair wiped the words from his lips. Dr. Chennel advanced quickly, touched the limp hand and stepped back with bowed head.
Raymond threw himself at her feet with a cry of anguish!
"Mother! Mother!"
In a little churchyard in the valley of Vienne, not far from the birthplace of the Blessed Maid, you may find a slender column of white marble marked with the name "Floriot" in large letters. Beneath is an inscription which begins:
"Here lies the body of Jacqueline Claire Gilberte Lefevre, the beloved mother of Raymond ——."
"Madame X" had found in death what she had lost in life—love and a name.