“’I had only him in the world, my parents being dead.  He came frequently; he spent whole evenings with me.  I should not have let him come so often, seeing that he was married.  But I had not enough will-power to prevent him from coming.

“’How can I tell it?—­he became my lover.  How did this come about?  Can I explain it?  Can any one explain such things?  Do you think it could be otherwise when two human beings are drawn to each other by the irresistible force of mutual affection?  Do you believe, monsieur, that it is always in our power to resist, that we can keep up the struggle forever, and refuse to yield to the prayers, the supplications, the tears, the frenzied words, the appeals on bended knees, the transports of passion, with which we are pursued by the man we adore, whom we want to gratify even in his slightest wishes, whom we desire to crown with every possible happiness, and whom, if we are to be guided by a worldly code of honor, we must drive to despair?  What strength would it not require?  What a renunciation of happiness? what self-denial? and even what virtuous selfishness?

“’In short, monsieur, I was his mistress; and I was happy.  I became—­and this was my greatest weakness and my greatest piece of cowardice-I became his wife’s friend.

“’We brought up my son together; we made a man of him, a thorough man, intelligent, full of sense and resolution, of large and generous ideas.  The boy reached the age of seventeen.

“’He, the young man, was fond of my—­my lover, almost as fond of him as I was myself, for he had been equally cherished and cared for by both of us.  He used to call him his ‘dear friend,’ and respected him immensely, having never received from him anything but wise counsels and an example of integrity, honor, and probity.  He looked upon him as an old loyal and devoted comrade of his mother, as a sort of moral father, guardian, protector—­how am I to describe it?

“’Perhaps the reason why he never asked any questions was that he had been accustomed from his earliest years to see this man in my house, at my side, and at his side, always concerned about us both.

“’One evening the three of us were to dine together—­this was my chief amusement—­and I waited for the two men, asking myself which of them would be the first to arrive.  The door opened; it was my old friend.  I went toward him, with outstretched arms; and he pressed my lips in a long, delicious kiss.

“’All of a sudden, a slight sound, a faint rustling, that mysterious sensation which indicates the presence of another person, made us start and turn round abruptly.  Jean, my son, stood there, livid, staring at us.

“’There was a moment of atrocious confusion.  I drew back, holding out my hand toward my son as if in supplication; but I could not see him.  He had gone.

“’We remained facing each other—­my lover and I—­crushed, unable to utter a word.  I sank into an armchair, and I felt a desire, a vague, powerful desire, to flee, to go out into the night, and to disappear forever.  Then convulsive sobs rose in my throat, and I wept, shaken with spasms, my heart breaking, all my nerves writhing with the horrible sensation of an irreparable, misfortune, and with that dreadful sense of shame which, in such moments as this, fills a mother’s heart.