"Poor child!"

That exclamation, falling now and then from Madame de la Chanterie's
lips as he went on, dropped like balm upon the heart of the sufferer.

"What can I substitute for so many hopes betrayed, so much affection
wasted?" he asked, looking at his hostess, who had now grown
thoughtful. "I came here," he resumed, "to reflect and choose a course
of action. I have lost my mother; will you replace her?"

"Will you," she said, "show a son's obedience?"

"Yes, if you will have the tenderness that commands it."

"I will try," she said.

Godefroid put out his hand to take that of his hostess, who gave it to
him, guessing his intentions. He carried it respectfully to his lips.
Madame de la Chanterie's hand was exquisitely beautiful,--without a
wrinkle; neither fat nor thin; white enough to be the envy of all
young women, and shapely enough for the model of a sculptor. Godefroid
had already admired those hands, conscious of their harmony with the
spell of her voice, and the celestial blue of her glance.

"Wait a moment," said Madame de la Chanterie, rising and going into
her own room.

Godefroid was keenly excited; he did not know to what class of ideas
her movement was to be attributed. His perplexity did not last long,