have thought her a little gypsy dying of hunger, begging her way,
exhausted but always brave and dressed up to play her part.

"Where have you left Jacques?" asked the countess, kissing the white
line which parted the child's hair into two bands that looked like a
crow's wings.

"He is coming with papa."

Just then the count entered, holding his son by the hand. Jacques, the
image of his sister, showed the same signs of weakness. Seeing these
sickly children beside a mother so magnificently healthy it was
impossible not to guess at the causes of the grief which clouded her
brow and kept her silent on a subject she could take to God only. As
he bowed, Monsieur de Mortsauf gave me a glance that was less
observing than awkwardly uneasy,--the glance of a man whose distrust
grows out of his inability to analyze. After explaining the
circumstances of our visit, and naming me to him, the countess gave
him her place and left the room. The children, whose eyes were on
those of their mother as if they drew the light of theirs from hers,
tried to follow her; but she said, with a finger on her lips, "Stay
dears!" and they obeyed, but their eyes filled. Ah! to hear that one
word "dears" what tasks they would have undertaken!

Like the children, I felt less warm when she had left us. My name
seemed to change the count's feeling toward me. Cold and supercilious
in his first glance, he became at once, if not affectionate, at least
politely attentive, showing me every consideration and seeming pleased
to receive me as a guest. My father had formerly done devoted service
to the Bourbons, and had played an important and perilous, though