“Mamma,” he said, in the voice of his childhood, so tender was it, and using the name he had abandoned for several years,--“my dear mamma, do not let us go out just yet; it is so pleasant here before the fire.” The mother heard, without comprehending, that supreme prayer of a mortal sorrow. “Yes, let us stay, my child,” she said. “I like much better to talk with you and listen to your projects than to play at boston and lose my money.” “You are so handsome to-night I love to look at you. Besides, I am in a current of ideas which harmonize with this poor little salon where we have suffered so much.” “And where we shall still suffer, my poor Athanase, until your works succeed. For myself, I am trained to poverty; but you, my treasure! to see your youth go by without a joy! nothing but toil for my poor boy in life! That thought is like an illness to a mother; it tortures me at night; it wakes me in the morning. O God! what have I done? for what crime dost thou punish me thus?” She left her sofa, took a little chair, and sat close to Athanase, so as to lay her head on the bosom of her child. There is always the grace of love in true motherhood. Athanase kissed her on the eyes, on her gray hair, on her forehead, with the sacred desire of laying his soul wherever he applied his lips. “I shall never succeed,” he said, trying to deceive his mother as to the fatal resolution he was revolving in his mind. “Pooh! don’t get discouraged. As you often say, thought can do all things. With ten bottles of ink, ten reams of paper, and his powerful will, Luther upset all Europe. Well, you’ll make yourself famous; you will do good things by the same means which he used to do evil things. Haven’t you said so yourself? For my part, I listen to you; I understand you a great deal more than you think I do,--for I still bear you in my bosom, and your every thought still stirs me as your slightest motion did in other days.” “I shall never succeed here, mamma; and I don’t want you to witness the sight of my struggles, my misery, my anguish. Oh, mother, let me leave Alencon! I want to suffer away from you.” “And I wish to be at your side,” replied his mother, proudly. “Suffer without your mother!--that poor mother who would be your servant if necessary; who will efface herself rather than injure you; your mother, who will never shame you. No, no, Athanase; we must not part.” Athanase clung to his mother with the ardor of a dying man who clings to life. “But I wish it, nevertheless. If not, you will lose me; this double grief, yours and mine, is killing me. You would rather I lived than died?” Madame Granson looked at her son with a haggard eye. “So this is what you have been brooding?” she said. “They told me right. Do you really mean to go?” “Yes.” “You will not go without telling me; without warning me? You must have an outfit and money. I have some louis sewn into my petticoat; I shall give them to you.” Athanase wept.