Hers had indeed been
a cruel lot: first, a home with wealthy parents in the provinces, a love
story and elopement with the man of her choice; next, ill-luck steadily
pursuing her, all sorts of home troubles, and at last her husband's
death. Then, in the retirement of her widowhood, after losing the best
part of the little income which had enabled her to bring up her son,
naught but this son had been left to her. He had been her Victor, her
sole affection, the only one in whom she had faith. She had ever striven
to believe that he was very busy, absorbed in work, and on the eve of
attaining to some superb position worthy of his merits. And now, all at
once, she had learnt that this fondly loved son was simply the most
odious of assassins, that he had flung a bomb into a cafe, and had there
killed three men.
When Madame Mathis had recovered her senses, thanks to the careful
tending of Mere-Grand, she sobbed on without cessation, raising such a
continuous doleful wail, that Pierre's hand again sought Guillaume's, and
grasped it, whilst their hearts, distracted but healed, mingled lovingly
one with the other.
V
LIFE'S WORK AND PROMISE
FIFTEEN months later, one fine golden day in September, Bache and
Theophile Morin were taking /dejeuner/ at Guillaume's, in the big
workroom overlooking the immensity of Paris.
Near the table was a cradle with its little curtains drawn.
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