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.
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