"Mother, have pity on me," sobbed Eugene, throwing himself at her
feet. "Do not answer my cruel question, for I read your innocence in
the noble scorn that flashes from your eye, and beams from every
feature of your dear, truthful face. Pardon me, beloved mother;
pardon your repentant child."

"No, I shall not pardon the poltroon who, believing that his mother
has disgraced his escutcheon, weeps like a woman over wrongs which
he should avenge like a man. But I forgot. The little abbe of Savoy
is not accustomed to wear a sword; HIS weapon is the missal. Go,
then, to your prayers, and when you pray for your father's soul, ask
forgiveness of God for your heartless and ungrateful conduct to his
widow."

"Dear, dear mother, have pity!" sobbed Eugene, still kneeling at her
feet.

"Was there any pity in your heart for me when you asked that
shameful question?"

"I was demented," cried he; "maddened by the sneers that were flung
at me in the streets to-day."

"And, to console yourself, you joined in the popular cry. 'Vox
populi vox Dei,' I suppose, is your pious motto."

"Mother!" cried Eugene, springing to his feet, "crush me, if you
will, under the weight of your anger, but do not stretch me upon the
rack of your scorn. I am no devotee; and, if the king, my family,
and yourself, are, forcing me into a career which is repugnant to