“Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de
Boiscoran.”
“My orders apply to everybody, madam.”
“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing
her son!”
“Ah! but--madam--it does not rest with me. I? Who am I? Nothing more
than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will.”
For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort
might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,--
“But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don’t
you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?”