I will fetch it presently." Then she had lied! When she had said that very morning to her son who had asked her what had become of the miniature: "I don't exactly know--perhaps it is in my desk"-- it was a lie! She had seen it, touched it, handled it, gazed at it but a few days since; and then she had hidden it away again in the secret drawer with those letters--his letters.
Pierre looked at the mother who had lied to him; looked at her with the concentrated fury of a son who had been cheated, robbed of his most sacred affection, and with the jealous wrath of a man who, after long being blind, at last discovers a disgraceful betrayal.

If he had been that woman's husband--and not her child--he would have gripped her by the wrists, seized her by the shoulders or the hair, have flung her on the ground, have hit her, hurt her, crushed her! And he might say nothing, do nothing, show nothing, reveal nothing.

He was her son; he had no vengeance to take.

And he had not been deceived.
Nay, but she had deceived his tenderness, his pious respect.

She owed to him to be without reproach, as all mothers owe it to their children.