ranged the portraits of their ancestors, in armor, in ducal or
episcopal robes, in doublet and hose, or in flowing wigs. Silently
the mother and son walked by the stately effigies of princes and
princesses, until they had reached the farthest portrait there.

With outstretched arms the countess pointed to the likeness of a
handsome man, clad in a rich court-suit, which well became his
aristocratic figure. As he gazed upon the pleasant smile that
illumined a face expressive of exceeding goodness, the eyes of young
Eugene filled with tears.

His mother surveyed him with a curl of her lip.

"Tears!" said she. "And yet you stand before the portrait of your
father, whom you accuse me of having murdered!"

"No, no," cried her son, eagerly, "I did not accuse, I--I--"

"You inquired," interrupted the countess, disdainfully. "And by your
inquiry you insinuate that such a crime by the hand of your mother
was not only possible, but probable."

"Unhappily, I have more than once seen La Voisin in your boudoir,
mother."

The countess affected not to hear. "Then a son considers himself
justifiable in asking of his mother whether or not she poisoned his
father; he should do so with the sword of justice in his hand, not
with an eyelid that trembles with cowardly tears."