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"Of course," said Peter. "Mr. D'Alloi owes you an ample income."
"Ah!" cried Celestine, shrugging her shoulders. "Do not talk of him--I
leave it to you to make him do what is right."
"And you will return to France?"
"Yes, yes. If you say so?" Celestine looked at Peter in a manner known
only to the Latin races. Just then a side door was thrown open, and a
boy of about twelve years of age dashed into the room, followed by a
French poodle.
"Little villain!" cried Celestine. "How dare you approach without
knocking? Go. Go. Quickly."
"Pardon, Madame," said the child. "I thought you still absent."
"Is that the child?" asked Peter.
"Yes," said Celestine.
"Does he know?"
"Nothing. I do not tell him even that I am his mother."
"Then you are not prepared to give him a mother's care and tenderness?"
"Never. I love him not. He is too like his father. And I cannot have it
known that I am the mother of a child of twelve. It would not be
believed, even." Celestine took a look at herself in the tall mirror.


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