limits."

The countess began to weep.

"Look at him!" she said. "He is your son."

"Madame!"

At that word, the frightened mother carried away the child whose heart
was beating like that of a bird caught in its nest. Whether innocence
has a power which the hardest men cannot escape, or whether the count
regretted his violence and feared to plunge into despair a creature so
necessary to his pleasures and also to his worldly prosperity, it is
certain that his voice was as soft as it was possible to make it when
his wife returned.

"Jeanne, my dear," he said, "do not be angry with me; give me your
hand. One never knows how to trust you women. I return, bringing you
fresh honors and more wealth, and yet, tete-Dieu! you receive me like
an enemy. My new government will oblige me to make long absences until
I can exchange it for that of Lower Normandy; and I request, my dear,
that you will show me a pleasant face while I am here."

The countess understood the meaning of the words, the feigned softness
of which could no longer deceive her.

"I know my duty," she replied in a tone of sadness which the count
mistook for tenderness.

The timid creature had too much purity and dignity to try, as some