"
That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening there
was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they were about
to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon the
floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could be
revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted,
accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that
morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish
outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one
another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her
boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first
time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a
terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so
acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in her,
she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely owner of
the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If she was
to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none other?
Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling of
desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning her
cruelly to the very depths of her being.
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