Chaverny had bequeathed to her all his life in
a last farewell. Beauvouloir and Bertrand, the mother and the sleeping
duke were all once more assembled. Same place, same scene, same
actors! but this was funereal grief in place of the joys of
motherhood; the night of death instead of the dawn of life. At that
moment the storm, threatened by the melancholy moaning of the sea
since sundown, suddenly burst forth.
"Dear flower of my life!" said the mother, kissing her son. "You were
taken from my bosom in the midst of a tempest, and in a tempest I am
taken from you. Between these storms all life has been stormy to me,
except the hours I have spent with you. This is my last joy, mingled
with my last pangs. Adieu, my only love! adieu, dear image of two
souls that will soon be reunited! Adieu, my only joy--pure joy! adieu,
my own beloved!"
"Let me follow thee!" cried Etienne.
"It would be your better fate!" she said, two tears rolling down her
livid cheeks; for, as in former days, her eyes seemed to read the
future. "Did any one see him?" she asked of the two men.
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