In her secret soul the high and mighty seemed so
infinitely superior to those in her own rank, that she had felt sure
that her son could not be admitted among them as an equal, and she was
too proud to wish that he should be admitted into their company as a
humble hanger-on. What Agatha had now confessed to her had surprised and
delighted her. There could be no doubt now; there was the daughter of
one of the noblest houses in Poitou sitting at her feet in her own
cabin, owning her love for the poor postillion. Agatha Larochejaquelin,
young, noble, beautiful, grandly beautiful as she was, had come to her
to confess that she had given her heart to her son. There was, however,
much pain mixed with her gratification. Cathelineau had gone, without
enjoying the high honours which might have been his. Had he lived,
Agatha Larochejaquelin would have been her daughter-in-law; but now the
splendid vision could never be more than a vision. She could solace
herself with thinking of the high position her son had won for himself,
but she could never enjoy the palpable reality of his honours.
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