answer she had received from him. The artist went to his atelier and

picked up the letter, whose concise brutality had broken the tender
heart of the poor mother, and shattered the edifice of trust her

maternalpreference had erected. When Joseph returned to her bedside
he had the good feeling to be silent. He did not speak of his brother

in the three weeks during which--we will not say the illness, but--the
death agony of the poor woman lasted. Bianchon, who came every day and

watched his patient with the devotion of a true friend, told Joseph
the truth on the first day of her seizure.

"At her age," he said, "and under the circumstances which have
happened to her, all we can hope to do is to make her death as little

painful as possible."
She herself felt so surely called of God that she asked the next day

for the religious help of old Abbe Loraux, who had been her confessor
for more than twenty-two years. As soon as she was alone with him, and

had poured her griefs into his heart, she said--as she had said to
Madame Hochon, and had repeated to herself again and again throughout

her life:--
"What have I done to displease God? Have I not loved Him with all my

soul? Have I wandered from the path of grace? What is my sin? Can I be
guilty of wrong when I know not what it is? Have I the time to repair

it?"
"No," said the old man, in a gentle voice. "Alas! your life seems to

have been pure and your soul spotless; but the eye of God, poor
afflicted creature, is keener than that of his ministers. I see the

truth too late; for you have misled even me."
Hearing these words from lips that had never spoken other than

peaceful and pleasant words to her, Agathe rose suddenly in her bed
and opened her eyes wide, with terror and distress.

"Tell me! tell me!" she cried.
"Be comforted," said the priest. "Your punishment is a proof that you

will receive pardon. God chastens his elect. Woe to those whose
misdeeds meet with fortunate success; they will be kneaded again in

humanity until they in their turn are sorely punished for simple
errors, and are brought to the maturity of celestial fruits. Your

life, my daughter, has been one long error. You have fallen into the
pit which you dug for yourself; we fail ever on the side we have

ourselves weakened. You gave your heart to an unnatural son, in whom
you made your glory, and you have misunderstood the child who is your

true glory. You have been so deeply unjust that you never even saw the
striking contrast between the brothers. You owe the comfort of your

life to Joseph, while your other son has pillaged you repeatedly. The
poor son, who loves you with no return of equal tenderness, gives you

all the comfort that your life has had; the rich son, who never thinks
of you, despises you and desires your death--"

"Oh! no," she cried.
"Yes," resumed the priest, "your humble position stands in the way of

his proud hopes. Mother, these are your sins! Woman, your sorrows and
your anguish foretell that you shall know the peace of God. Your son

Joseph is so noble that his tenderness has never been lessened by the
injustice your maternalpreferences have done him. Love him now; give

him all your heart during your remaining days; pray for him, as I
shall pray for you."

The eyes of the mother, opened by so firm a hand, took in with one
retrospective glance the whole course of her life. Illumined by this

flash of light, she saw her involuntary wrong-doing and burst into
tears. The old priest was so deeply moved at the repentance of a being

who had sinned solely through ignorance, that he left the room hastily
lest she should see his pity.

Joseph returned to his mother's room about two hours after her
confessor had left her. He had been to a friend to borrow the

necessary money to pay his most pressing debts, and he came in on
tiptoe, thinking that his mother was asleep. He sat down in an

armchair without her seeing him; but he sprang up with a cold chill
running through him as he heard her say, in a voice broken with

sobs,--
"Will he forgive me?"

"What is it, mother?" he exclaimed, shocked at the stricken face of
the poor woman, and thinking the words must mean the delirium that

precedes death.
"Ah, Joseph! can you pardon me, my child?" she cried.

"For what?" he said.
"I have never loved you as you deserved to be loved."

"Oh, what an accusation!" he cried. "Not loved me? For seven years
have we not lived alone together? All these seven years have you not

taken care of me and done everything for me? Do I not see you every
day,--hear your voice? Are you not the gentle and indulgent companion

of my miserable life? You don't understand painting?--Ah! but that's a
gift not always given. I was saying to Grassou only yesterday: 'What

comforts me in the midst of my trials is that I have such a good
mother. She is all that an artist's wife should be; she sees to

everything; she takes care of my material wants without ever troubling
or worrying me.'"

"No, Joseph, no; you have loved me, but I have not returned you love
for love. Ah! would that I could live a little longer-- Give me your

hand."
Agathe took her son's hand, kissed it, held it on her heart, and

looked in his face a long time,--letting him see the azure of her eyes
resplendent with a tenderness she had hitherto bestowed on Philippe

only. The painter, well fitted to judge of expression, was so struck
by the change, and saw so plainly how the heart of his mother had

opened to him, that he took her in his arms, and held her for some
moments to his heart, crying out like one beside himself,--"My mother!

oh, my mother!"
"Ah! I feel that I am forgiven!" she said. "God will confirm the

child's pardon of its mother."
"You must be calm: don't torment yourself; hear me. I feel myself

loved enough in this one moment for all the past," he said, as he laid
her back upon the pillows.

During the two weeks' struggle between life and death, there glowed
such love in every look and gesture and impulse of the soul of the

pious creature, that each effusion of her feelings seemed like the
expression of a lifetime. The mother thought only of her son; she

herself counted for nothing; sustained by love, she was unaware of her
sufferings. D'Arthez, Michel Chrestien, Fulgence Ridal, Pierre

Grassou, and Bianchon often kept Joseph company, and she heard them
talking art in a low voice in a corner of her room.

"Oh, how I wish I knew what color is!" she exclaimed one evening as
she heard them discussing one of Joseph's pictures.

Joseph, on his side, was sublimely devoted to his mother. He never
left her chamber; answered tenderness by tenderness, cherishing her

upon his heart. The spectacle was never afterwards forgotten by his
friends; and they themselves, a band of brothers in talent and

nobility of nature, were to Joseph and his mother all that they should
have been,--friends who prayed, and truly wept; not saying prayers and

shedding tears, but one with their friend in thought and action.
Joseph, inspired as much by feeling as by genius, divined in the

occasional expression of his mother's face a desire that was deep
hidden in her heart, and he said one day to d'Arthez,--

"She has loved that brigand Philippe too well not to want to see him
before she dies."

Joseph begged Bixiou, who frequented the Bohemian regions where
Philippe was still occasionally to be found, to persuade that

shameless son to play, if only out of pity, a little comedy of
tenderness which might wrap the mother's heart in a winding-sheet of

illusive happiness. Bixiou, in his capacity as an observing and
misanthropical scoffer, desired nothing better than to undertake such

a mission. When he had made known Madame Bridau's condition to the
Comte de Brambourg, who received him in a bedroom hung with yellow