“’No other image of love shall be engraven on my heart.  Though I am not a woman, I feel as you felt that when I said “I love you,” it was a vow for life.  Yes, the words then spoken in the ear of “my beloved” were not a lie; you would have a right to scorn me if I could change.  I shall never cease to worship you in my solitude.  In spite of the gulf set between us, you will still be the mainspring of all my actions, and all the virtues are inspired by penitence and love.  Though you have filled my heart with bitterness, I shall never have bitter thoughts of you; would it not be an ill beginning of the new tasks that I have set myself if I did not purge out all the evil leaven from my soul?  Farewell, then, to the one heart that I love in the world, a heart from which I am cast out.  Never has more feeling and more tenderness been expressed in a farewell, for is it not fraught with the life and soul of one who can never hope again, and must be henceforth as one dead? . . .  Farewell.  May peace be with you, and may all the sorrow of our lot fall to me!’”

Benassis and Genestas looked at each other for a moment after reading the two letters, each full of sad thoughts, of which neither spoke.

“As you see, this is only a rough copy of my last letter,” said Benassis; “it is all that remains to me to-day of my blighted hopes.  When I had sent the letter, I fell into an indescribable state of depression.  All the ties that hold one to life were bound together in the hope of wedded happiness, which was henceforth lost to me for ever.  I had to bid farewell to the joys of a permitted and acknowledged love, to all the generous ideas that had thronged up from the depths of my heart.  The prayers of a penitent soul that thirsted for righteousness and for all things lovely and of good report, had been rejected by these religious people.  At first, the wildest resolutions and most frantic thoughts surged through my mind, but happily for me the sight of my son brought self-control.  I felt all the more strongly drawn towards him for the misfortunes of which he was the innocent cause, and for which I had in reality only myself to blame.  In him I found all my consolation.

“At the age of thirty-four I might still hope to do my country noble service.  I determined to make a name for myself, a name so illustrious that no one should remember the stain on the birth of my son.  How many noble thoughts I owe to him!  How full a life I led in those days while I was absorbed in planning out his future!  I feel stifled,” cried Benassis.  “All this happened eleven years ago, and yet to this day, I cannot bear to think of that fatal year. . . .  My child died, sir; I lost him!”

The doctor was silent, and hid his face in his hands; when he was somewhat calmer he raised his head again, and Genestas saw that his eyes were full of tears.