God help me, I have no choice. She will
realize that when she knows. Andre, my boy... " He paused again,
a man afraid. He set a hand on his godson's shoulder, and to his
increasing amazement Andre-Louis perceived that over those pale,
short-sighted eyes there was a film of tears. "Mme. de Plougastel
is your mother."
Followed, for a long moment, utter silence. This thing that he was
told was not immediately understood. When understanding came at
last Andre-Louis' first impulse was to cry out. But he possessed
himself, and played the Stoic. He must ever be playing something.
That was in his nature. And he was true to his nature even in this
supreme moment. He continued silent until, obeying that queer
histrionic instinct, he could trust himself to speak without emotion.
"I see," he said, at last, quite coolly.
His mind was sweeping back over the past. Swiftly he reviewed his
memories of Mme. de Plougastel, her singular if sporadic interest
in him, the curious blend of affection and wistfulness which her
manner towards him had always presented, and at last he understood
so much that hitherto had intrigued him.
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