THE OLD AGE OF A GUILTY MOTHER
It was one of the earliest June days of the year 1844. A lady of fiftyor thereabouts, for she looked older than her actual age, was pacingup and down one of the sunny paths in the garden of a great mansion inthe Rue Plument in Paris. It was noon. The lady took two or threeturns along the gently winding garden walk, careful never to losesight of a certain row of windows, to which she seemed to give herwhole attention; then she sat down on a bench, a piece of elegantsemi-rusticity made of branches with the bark left on the wood. Fromthe place where she sat she could look through the garden railingsalong the inner boulevards to the wonderful dome of the Invalidesrising above the crests of a forest of elm-trees, and see the lessstriking view of her own grounds terminating in the gray stone frontof one of the finest hotels in the Faubourg Saint-Germain.
Silence lay over the neighboring gardens, and the boulevardsstretching away to the Invalides. Day scarcely begins at noon in thataristocratic quarter, and masters and servants are all alike asleep,or just awakening, unless some young lady takes it into her head to gofor an early ride, or a gray-headed diplomatist rises betimes toredraft a protocol.
The elderly lady stirring abroad at that hour was the Marquised'Aiglemont, the mother of Mme. de Saint-Hereen, to whom the greathouse belonged. The Marquise had made over the mansion and almost herwhole fortune to her daughter, reserving only an annuity for herself.
The Comtesse Moina de Saint-Hereen was Mme. d'Aiglemont's youngestchild. The Marquise had made every sacrifice to marry her daughter tothe eldest son of one of the greatest houses of France; and this wasonly what might have been expected, for the lady had lost her sons,first one and then the other. Gustave, Marquis d'Aiglemont, had diedof the cholera; Abel, the second, had fallen in Algeria. Gustave hadleft a widow and children, but the dowager's affection for her sonshad been only moderately warm, and for the next generation it wasdecidedly tepid. She was always civil to her daughter-in-law, but herfeeling towards the young Marquise was the distinctly conventionalaffection which good taste and good manners require us to feel for ourrelatives. The fortunes of her dead children having been settled, shecould devote her savings and her own property to her darling Moina.
Moina, beautiful and fascinating from childhood, was Mme.d'Aiglemont's favorite; loved beyond all the others with aninstinctive or involuntary love, a fatal drawing of the heart, whichsometimes seems inexplicable, sometimes, and to a close observer, onlytoo easy to explain. Her darling's pretty face, the sound of Moina'svoice, her ways, her manner, her looks and gestures, roused all thedeepest emotions that can stir a mother's heart with trouble, rapture,or delight. The springs of the Marquise's life, of yesterday,to-morrow, and to-day, lay in that young heart. Moina, with betterfortune, had survived four older children. As a matter of fact, Mme.d'Aiglemont had lost her eldest daughter, a charming girl, in a mostunfortunate manner, said gossip, nobody knew exactly what became ofher; and then she lost a little boy of five by a dreadful accident.
The child of her affections had, however, been spared to her, anddoubtless the Marquise saw the will of Heaven in that fact; for thosewho had died, she kept but very shadowy recollections in some far-offcorner of her heart; her memories of her dead children were like theheadstones on a battlefield, you can scarcely see them for the flowersthat have sprung up about them since. Of course, if the world hadchosen, it might have said some hard truths about the Marquise, mighthave taken her to task for shallowness and an overweening preferencefor one child at the expense of the rest; but the world of Paris isswept along by the full flood of new events, new ideas, and newfashions, and it was inevitable the Mme. d'Aiglemont should be in somesort allowed to drop out of sight. So nobody thought of blaming herfor coldness or neglect which concerned no one, whereas her quick,apprehensive tenderness for Moina was found highly interesting by nota few who respected it as a sort of superstition. Besides, theMarquise scarcely went into society at all; and the few families whoknew her thought of her as a kindly, gentle, indulgent woman, whollydevoted to her family. What but a curiosity, keen indeed, would seekto pry beneath the surface with which the world is quite satisfied?And what would we not pardon to old people, if only they will effacethemselves like shadows, and consent to be regarded as memories andnothing more!
Indeed, Mme. d'Aiglemont became a kind of example complacently held upby the younger generation to fathers of families, and frequently citedto mothers-in-law. She had made over her property to Moina in her ownlifetime; the young Countess' happiness was enough for her, she onlylived in her daughter. If some cautious old person or morose unclehere and there condemned the course with--"Perhaps Mme. d'Aiglemontmay be sorry some day that she gave up her fortune to her daughter;she may be sure of Moina, but how can she be equally sure of herson-in-law?"--these prophets were cried down on all sides, and fromall sides a chorus of praise went up for Moina.
"It ought to be said, in justice to Mme. de Saint-Hereen, that hermother cannot feel the slightest difference," remarked a young marriedwoman. "Mme. d'Aiglemont is admirably well housed. She has a carriageat her disposal, and can go everywhere just as she used to do--"
"Except to the Italiens," remarked a low voice. (This was an elderlyparasite, one of those persons who show their independence--as theythink--by riddling their friends with epigrams.) "Except to theItaliens. And if the dowager cares for anything on this earth but herdaughter--it is music. Such a good performer she was in her time! Butthe Countess' box is always full of young butterflies, and theCountess' mother would be in the way; the young lady is talked aboutalready as a great flirt. So the poor mother never goes to theItaliens."
"Mme. de Saint-Hereen has delightful 'At Homes' for her mother," saida rosebud. "All Paris goes to her salon.
"And no one pays any attention to the Marquise," returned theparasite.
"The fact is that Mme. d'Aiglemont is never alone," remarked acoxcomb, siding with the young women.
"In the morning," the old observer continued in a discreet voice, "inthe morning dear Moina is asleep. At four o'clock dear Moina drives inthe Bois. In the evening dear Moina goes to a ball or to the Bouffes.--Still, it is certainly true that Mme. d'Aiglemont has the privilegeof seeing her dear daughter while she dresses, and again at dinner, ifdear Moina happens to dine with her mother. Not a week ago, sir,"continued the elderly person, laying his hand on the arm of the shytutor, a new arrival in the house, "not a week ago, I saw the poormother, solitary and sad, by her own fireside.--'What is the matter?'I asked. The Marquise looked up smiling, but I am quite sure that shehad been crying.--'I was thinking that it is a strange thing that Ishould be left alone when I have had five children,' she said, 'butthat is our destiny! And besides, I am happy when I know that Moina isenjoying herself.'--She could say that to me, for I knew her husbandwhen he was alive. A poor stick he was, and uncommonly lucky to havesuch a wife; it was certainly owing to her that he was made a peer ofFrance, and had a place at Court under Charles X."
Yet such mistaken ideas get about in social gossip, and such mischiefis done by it, that the historian of manners is bound to exercise hisdiscretion, and weigh the assertions so recklessly made. After all,who is to say that either mother or daughter was right or wrong? Thereis but One who can read and judge their hearts! And how often does Hewreak His vengeance in the family circle, using throughout all timechildren as His instruments against their mothers, and fathers againsttheir sons, raising up peoples against kings, and princes againstpeoples, sowing strife and division everywhere? And in the world ofideas, are not opinions and feelings expelled by new feelings andopinions, much as withered leaves are thrust forth by the youngleaf-buds in the spring?--all in obedience to the immutable Scheme; allto some end which God alone knows. Yet, surely, all things proceed toHim, or rather, to Him all things return.
Such thoughts of religion, the natural thoughts of age, floated up nowand again on the current of Mme. d'Aiglemont's thoughts; they werealways dimly present in her mind, but sometimes they shone outclearly, sometimes they were carried under, like flowers tossed on thevexed surface of a stormy sea.
She sat on a garden-seat, tired with walking, exhausted with muchthinking--with the long thoughts in which a whole lifetime rises upbefore the mind, and is spread out like a scroll before the eyes ofthose who feel that Death is near.
If a poet had chanced to pass along the boulevard, he would have foundan interesting picture in the face of this woman, grown old before hertime. As she sat under the dotted shadow of the acacia, the shadow theacacia casts at noon, a thousand thoughts were written for all theworld to see on her features, pale and cold even in the hot, brightsunlight. There was something sadder than the sense of waning life inthat expressive face, some trouble that went deeper than the wearinessof experience. It was a face of a type that fixes you in a momentamong a host of characterless faces that fail to draw a second glance,a face to set you thinking. Among a thousand pictures in a gallery,you are strongly impressed by the sublime anguish on the face of someMadonna of Murillo's; by some Beatrice Cenci in which Guido's artportrays the most touching innocence against a background of horrorand crime; by the awe and majesty that should encircle a king, caughtonce and for ever by Velasquez in the sombre face of a Philip II., andso is it with some living human faces; they are tyrannous pictureswhich speak to you, submit you to searching scrutiny, and giveresponse to your inmost thoughts, nay, there are faces that set fortha whole drama, and Mme. d'Aiglemont's stony face was one of theseawful tragedies, one of such faces as Dante Alighieri saw by thousandsin his vision.
For the little season that a woman's beauty is in flower it serves heradmirably well in the dissimulation to which her natural weakness andour social laws condemn her. A young face and rich color, and eyesthat glow with light, a gracious maze of such subtle, manifold linesand curves, flawless and perfectly traced, is a screen that hideseverything that stirs the woman within. A flush tells nothing, it onlyheightens the coloring so brilliant already; all the fires that burnwithin can add little light to the flame of life in eyes which onlyseem the brighter for the flash of a passing pain. Nothing is sodiscreet as a young face, for nothing is less mobile; it has theserenity, the surface smoothness, and the freshness of a lake. Thereis not character in women's faces before the age of thirty. Thepainter discovers nothing there but pink and white, and the smile andexpression that repeat the same thought in the same way--a thought ofyouth and love that goes no further than youth and love. But the faceof an old woman has expressed all that lay in her nature; passion hascarved lines on her features; love and wifehood and motherhood, andextremes of joy and anguish, having wrung them, and left their tracesin a thousand wrinkles, all of which speak a language of their own;then it is that a woman's face becomes sublime in its horror,beautiful in its melancholy, grand in its calm. If it is permissibleto carry the strange metaphor still further, it might be said that inthe dried-up lake you can see the traces of all the torrents that oncepoured into it and made it what it is. An old face is nothing to thefrivolous world; the frivolous world is shocked by the sight of thedestruction of such comeliness as it can understand; a commonplaceartist sees nothing there. An old face is the province of the poetsamong poets of those who can recognize that something which is calledBeauty, apart from all the conventions underlying so manysuperstitions in art and taste.
Though Mme. d'Aiglemont wore a fashionable bonnet, it was easy to seethat her once black hair had been bleached by cruel sorrows; yet hergood taste and the gracious acquired instincts of a woman of fashioncould be seen in the way she wore it, divided into two bandeaux,following the outlines of a forehead that still retained some tracesof former dazzling beauty, worn and lined though it was. The contoursof her face, the regularity of her features, gave some idea, faint intruth, of that beauty of which surely she had once been proud; butthose traces spoke still more plainly of the anguish which had laid itwaste, of sharp pain that had withered the temples, and made thosehollows in her cheeks, and empurpled the eyelids, and robbed them oftheir lashes, and the eyes of their charm. She was in every way sonoiseless; she moved with a slow, self-contained gravity that showeditself in her whole bearing, and struck a certain awe into others. Herdiffident manner had changed to positive shyness, due apparently to ahabit now of some years' growth, of effacing herself in her daughter'spresence. She spoke very seldom, and in the low tones used by thosewho perforce must live within themselves a life of reflection andconcentration. This demeanor led others to regard her with anindefinable feeling which was neither awe nor compassion, but amysterious blending of the many ideas awakened in us by compassion andawe. Finally, there was something in her wrinkles, in the lines of herface, in the look of pain in those wan eyes of hers, that boreeloquent testimony to tears that never had fallen, tears that had beenabsorbed by her heart. Unhappy creatures, accustomed to raise theireyes to heaven, in mute appeal against the bitterness of their lot,would have seen at once from her eyes that she was broken in to thecruel discipline of ceaseless prayer, would have discerned the almostimperceptible symptoms of the secret bruises which destroy all theflowers of the soul, even the sentiment of motherhood.
Painters have colors for these portraits, but words, and the mentalimages called up by words, fail to reproduce such impressionsfaithfully; there are mysterious signs and tokens in the tones of thecoloring and in the look of human faces, which the mind only seizesthrough the sense of sight; and the poet is fain to record the tale ofthe events which wrought the havoc to make their terrible ravagesunderstood.
The face spoke of cold and steady storm, an inward conflict between amother's long-suffering and the limitations of our nature, for ourhuman affections are bounded by our humanity, and the infinite has noplace in finite creatures. Sorrow endured in silence had at lastproduced an indefinable morbid something in this woman. Doubtlessmental anguish had reacted on the physical frame, and some disease,perhaps an aneurism, was undermining Julie's life. Deep-seated grieflies to all appearance very quietly in the depths where it isconceived, yet, so still and apparently dormant as it is, itceaselessly corrodes the soul, like the terrible acid which eats awaycrystal.
Two tears made their way down the Marquise's cheeks; she rose to herfeet as if some thought more poignant than any that preceded it hadcut her to the quick. She had doubtless come to a conclusion as toMoina's future; and now, foreseeing clearly all the troubles in storefor her child, the sorrows of her own unhappy life had begun to weighonce more upon her. The key of her position must be sought in herdaughter's situation.
The Comte de Saint-Hereen had been away for nearly six months on apolitical mission. The Countess, whether from sheer giddiness, or inobedience to the countless instincts of woman's coquetry, or to essayits power--with all the vanity of a frivolous fine lady, all thecapricious waywardness of a child--was amusing herself, during herhusband's absence, by playing with the passion of a clever butheartless man, distracted (so he said) with love, the love thatcombines readily with every petty social ambition of a self-conceitedcoxcomb. Mme. d'Aiglemont, whose long experience had given her aknowledge of life, and taught her to judge of men and to dread theworld, watched the course of this flirtation, and saw that it couldonly end in one way, if her daughter should fall into the hands of anutterly unscrupulous intriguer. How could it be other than a terriblethought for her that her daughter listened willingly to this roue?Her darling stood on the brink of a precipice, she felt horribly sureof it, yet dared not hold her back. She was afraid of the Countess.She knew too that Moina would not listen to her wise warnings; sheknew that she had no influence over that nature--iron for her,silken-soft for all others. Her mother's tenderness might have led herto sympathize with the troubles of a passion called forth by the noblerqualities of a lover, but this was no passion--it was coquetry, andthe Marquise despised Alfred de Vandenesse, knowing that he hadentered upon this flirtation with Moina as if it were a game of chess.
But if Alfred de Vandenesse made her shudder with disgust, she wasobliged--unhappy mother!--to conceal the strongest reason for herloathing in the deepest recesses of her heart. She was on terms ofintimate friendship with the Marquis de Vandenesse, the young man'sfather; and this friendship, a respectable one in the eyes of theworld, excused the son's constant presence in the house, he professingan old attachment, dating from childhood, for Mme. de Saint-Hereen.More than this, in vain did Mme. d'Aiglemont nerve herself to comebetween Moina and Alfred de Vandenesse with a terrible word, knowingbeforehand that she should not succeed; knowing that the strong reasonwhich ought to separate them would carry no weight; that she shouldhumiliate herself vainly in her daughter's eyes. Alfred was toocorrupt; Moina too clever to believe the revelation; the youngCountess would turn it off and treat it as a piece of maternalstrategy. Mme. d'Aiglemont had built her prison walls with her ownhands; she had immured herself only to see Moina's happiness ruinedthence before she died; she was to look on helplessly at the ruin ofthe young life which had been her pride and joy and comfort, a life athousand times dearer to her than her own. What words can describeanguish so hideous beyond belief, such unfathomed depths of pain?
She waited for Moina to rise, with the impatience and sickening dreadof a doomed man, who longs to have done with life, and turns cold atthe thought of the headsman. She had braced herself for a last effort,but perhaps the prospect of the certain failure of the attempt wasless dreadful to her than the fear of receiving yet again one of thosethrusts that went to her very heart--before that fear her courageebbed away. Her mother's love had come to this. To love her child, tobe afraid of her, to shrink from the thought of the stab, yet to goforward. So great is a mother's affection in a loving nature, thatbefore it can fade away into indifference the mother herself must dieor find support in some great power without her, in religion oranother love. Since the Marquise rose that morning, her fatal memoryhad called up before her some of those things, so slight to allappearance, that make landmarks in a life. Sometimes, indeed, a wholetragedy grows out of a single gesture; the tone in which a few wordswere spoken rends a whole life in two; a glance into indifferent eyesis the deathblow of the gladdest love; and, unhappily, such gesturesand such words were only too familiar to Mme. d'Aiglemont--she had metso many glances that wound the soul. No, there was nothing in thosememories to bid her hope. On the contrary, everything went to showthat Alfred had destroyed her hold on her daughter's heart, that thethought of her was now associated with duty--not with gladness. Inways innumerable, in things that were mere trifles in themselves, theCountess' detestable conduct rose up before her mother; and theMarquise, it may be, looked on Moina's undutifulness as a punishment,and found excuses for her daughter in the will of Heaven, that so shestill might adore the hand that smote her.
All these things passed through her memory that morning, and eachrecollection wounded her afresh so sorely, that with a very littleadditional pain her brimming cup of bitterness must have overflowed. Acold look might kill her.
The little details of domestic life are difficult to paint; but one ortwo perhaps will suffice to give an idea of the rest.
The Marquise d'Aiglemont, for instance, had grown rather deaf, but shecould never induce Moina to raise her voice for her. Once, with thenaivete of suffering, she had begged Moina to repeat some remark whichshe had failed to catch, and Moina obeyed, but with so bad a grace,the Mme. d'Aiglemont had never permitted herself to make her modestrequest again. Ever since that day when Moina was talking or retailinga piece of news, her mother was careful to come near to listen; butthis infirmity of deafness appeared to put the Countess out ofpatience, and she would grumble thoughtlessly about it. This instanceis one from among very many that must have gone to the mother's heart;and yet nearly all of them might have escaped a close observer, theyconsisted in faint shades of manner invisible to any but a woman'seyes. Take another example. Mme. d'Aiglemont happened to say one daythat the Princesse de Cadignan had called upon her. "Did she come tosee you!" Moina exclaimed. That was all, but the Countess' voice andmanner expressed surprise and well-bred contempt in semitones. Anyheart, still young and sensitive, might well have applauded thephilanthropy of savage tribes who kill off their old people when theygrow too feeble to cling to a strongly shaken bough. Mme. d'Aiglemontrose smiling, and went away to weep alone.
Well-bred people, and women especially, only betray their feelings byimperceptible touches; but those who can look back over their ownexperience on such bruises as this mother's heart received, know alsohow the heart-strings vibrate to these light touches. Overcome by hermemories, Mme. d'Aiglemont recollected one of those microscopicallysmall things, so stinging and so painful was it that never till thismoment had she felt all the heartless contempt that lurked beneathsmiles.
At the sound of shutters thrown back at her daughter's windows, shedried her tears, and hastened up the pathway by the railings. As shewent, it struck her that the gardener had been unusually careful torake the sand along the walk which had been neglected for some littletime. As she stood under her daughter's windows, the shutters werehastily closed.
"Moina, is it you?" she asked.
No answer.
The Marquise went on into the house.
"Mme. la Comtesse is in the little drawing-room," said the maid, whenthe Marquise asked whether Mme. de Saint-Hereen had finished dressing.
Mme. d'Aiglemont hurried to the little drawing-room; her heart was toofull, her brain too busy to notice matters so slight; but there on thesofa sat the Countess in her loose morning-gown, her hair in disorderunder the cap tossed carelessly on he head, her feet thrust intoslippers. The key of her bedroom hung at her girdle. Her face, aglowwith color, bore traces of almost stormy thought.
"What makes people come in!" she cried, crossly. "Oh! it is you,mother," she interrupted herself, with a preoccupied look.
"Yes, child; it is your mother----"
Something in her tone turned those words into an outpouring of theheart, the cry of some deep inward feeling, only to be described bythe word "holy." So thoroughly in truth had she rehabilitated thesacred character of a mother, that her daughter was impressed, andturned towards her, with something of awe, uneasiness, and remorse inher manner. The room was the furthest of a suite, and safe fromindiscreet intrusion, for no one could enter it without giving warningof approach through the previous apartments. The Marquise closed thedoor.
"It is my duty, my child, to warn you in one of the most seriouscrises in the lives of us women; you have perhaps reached itunconsciously, and I am come to speak to you as a friend rather thanas a mother. When you married, you acquired freedom of action; you areonly accountable to your husband now; but I asserted my authority solittle (perhaps I was wrong), that I think I have a right to expectyou to listen to me, for once at least, in a critical position whenyou must need counsel. Bear in mind, Moina that you are married to aman of high ability, a man of whom you may well be proud, a man who--"
"I know what you are going to say, mother!" Moina broke in pettishly."I am to be lectured about Alfred--"
"Moina," the Marquise said gravely, as she struggled with her tears,"you would not guess at once if you did not feel--"
"What?" asked Moina, almost haughtily. "Why, really, mother--"
Mme. d'Aiglemont summoned up all her strength. "Moina," she said, "youmust attend carefully to this that I ought to tell you--"
"I am attending," returned the Countess, folding her arms, andaffecting insolent submission. "Permit me, mother, to ring forPauline," she added with incredible self-possession; "I will send heraway first."
She rang the bell.
"My dear child, Pauline cannot possibly hear--"
"Mamma," interrupted the Countess, with a gravity which must havestruck her mother as something unusual, "I must--"
She stopped short, for the woman was in the room.
"Pauline, go yourself to Baudran's, and ask why my hat has not yetbeen sent."
Then the Countess reseated herself and scrutinized her mother. TheMarquise, with a swelling heart and dry eyes, in painful agitation,which none but a mother can fully understand, began to open Moina'seyes to the risk that she was running. But either the Countess felthurt and indignant at her mother's suspicions of a son of the Marquisde Vandenesse, or she was seized with a sudden fit of inexplicablelevity caused by the inexperience of youth. She took advantage of apause.
"Mamma, I thought you were only jealous of the father--" she said,with a forced laugh.
Mme. d'Aiglemont shut her eyes and bent her head at the words, with avery faint, almost inaudible sigh. She looked up and out into space,as if she felt the common overmastering impulse to appeal to God atthe great crises of our lives; then she looked at her daughter, andher eyes were full of awful majesty and the expression of profoundsorrow.
"My child," she said, and her voice was hardly recognizable, "you havebeen less merciful to your mother than he against whom she sinned;less merciful than perhaps God Himself will be!"
Mme. d'Aiglemont rose; at the door she turned; but she saw nothing butsurprise in her daughter's face. She went out. Scarcely had shereached the garden when her strength failed her. There was a violentpain at her heart, and she sank down on a bench. As her eyes wanderedover the path, she saw fresh marks on the path, a man's footprintswere distinctly recognizable. It was too late, then, beyond a doubt.Now she began to understand the reason for that order given toPauline, and with these torturing thoughts came a revelation morehateful than any that had gone before it. She drew her owninferences--the son of the Marquis de Vandenesse had destroyed allfeeling of respect for her in her daughter's mind. The physical paingrew worse; by degrees she lost consciousness, and sat like one asleepupon the garden-seat.
The Countess de Saint-Hereen, left to herself, thought that her motherhad given her a somewhat shrewd home-thrust, but a kiss and a fewattentions that evening would make all right again.
A shrill cry came from the garden. She leaned carelessly out, asPauline, not yet departed on her errand, called out for help, holdingthe Marquise in her arms.
"Do not frighten my daughter!" those were the last words the motheruttered.
Moina saw them carry in a pale and lifeless form that struggled forbreath, and arms moving restlessly as in protest or effort to speak;and overcome by the sight, Moina followed in silence, and helped toundress her mother and lay her on her bed. The burden of her fault wasgreater than she could bear. In that supreme hour she learned to knowher mother--too late, she could make no reparation now. She would havethem leave her alone with her mother; and when there was no one elsein the room, when she felt that the hand which had always been sotender for her was now grown cold to her touch, she broke out intoweeping. Her tears aroused the Marquise; she could still look at herdarling Moina; and at the sound of sobbing, that seemed as if it mustrend the delicate, disheveled breast, could smile back at herdaughter. That smile taught the unnatural child that forgiveness isalways to be found in the great deep of a mother's heart.
Servants on horseback had been dispatched at once for the physicianand surgeon and for Mme. d'Aiglemont's grandchildren. Mme. d'Aiglemontthe younger and her little sons arrived with the medical men, asufficiently impressive, silent, and anxious little group, which theservants of the house came to join. The young Marquise, hearing nosound, tapped gently at the door. That signal, doubtless, roused Moinafrom her grief, for she flung open the doors and stood before them. Nowords could have spoken more plainly than that disheveled figurelooking out with haggard eyes upon the assembled family. Before thatliving picture of Remorse the rest were dumb. It was easy to see thatthe Marquise's feet were stretched out stark and stiff with the agonyof death; and Moina, leaning against the door-frame, looking intotheir faces, spoke in a hollow voice:
"I have lost my mother!"
PARIS, 1828-1844.
THE END.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
ADDENDUM
The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.
Aiglemont, General, Marquis Victor d' At the Sign of the Cat and Racket The Firm of Nucingen
Bonaparte, Napoleon The Vendetta The Gondreville Mystery Colonel Chabert Domestic Peace The Seamy Side of History
Camps, Madame Octave de (nee Cadignan) Madame Firmiani The Government Clerks A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis
Chatillonest, De Modeste Mignon
Crottat, Alexandre Cesar Birotteau Colonel Chabert A Start in Life Cousin Pons
Desroches (son) A Bachelor's Establishment Colonel Chabert A Start in Life The Commission in Lunacy The Government Clerks A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Firm of Nucingen A Man of Business The Middle Classes
Duroc, Gerard-Christophe-Michel The Gondreville Mystery
Ronquerolles, Marquis de The Imaginary Mistress The Peasantry Ursule Mirouet Another Study of Woman The Thirteen The Member for Arcis
Saint-Hereen, Comtesse Moina de A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis
Serizy, Comtesse de A Start in Life The Thirteen Ursule Mirouet Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Another Study of Woman The Imaginary Mistress
Vandenesse, Marquis Charles de A Start in Life A Daughter of Eve