Just then the clock struck one, and my mother-in-law made her appearance.
Her eyes were red, and her ungloved hand was crumpling up a handkerchief
visibly moistened.

At the sight of her my first movement was one of impatience. I said to
myself, "I am in for a quarter of an hour of it at least."

Indeed, Madame de C. sank down on a couch, took my hand, and burst into
tears. Amid her sobs she ejaculated, "Georges--my dear boy--Georges--my
son."

I felt that I could not rise to the occasion. "Come, Captain," I said to
myself, "a tear; squeeze forth a tear. You can not get out of this
becomingly without a tear, or it will be, 'My son-in-law, it is all
off.'"

When this stupid phrase, derived from I do not know where--a Palais Royal
farce, I believe--had once got into my head, it was impossible for me to
get rid of it, and I felt bursts of wild merriment welling up to my lips.

"Calm yourself, Madame; calm yourself."

"How can I, Georges? Forgive me, my dear boy."

"Can you doubt me, Madame?"

I felt that "Madame" was somewhat cold, but I was afraid of making Madame
de C. seem old by calling her "mother." I knew her to be somewhat of a
coquette.