“’He looked at me in a terrified manner, not venturing to approach, to speak to me, or to touch me, for fear of the boy’s return.  At last he said: 

“’I am going to follow him-to talk to him—­to explain matters to him.  In short, I must see him and let him know——­”

“’And he hurried away.

“’I waited—­waited in a distracted frame of mind, trembling at the least sound, starting with fear and with some unutterably strange and intolerable emotion at every slight crackling of the fire in the grate.

“’I waited an hour, two hours, feeling my heart swell with a dread I had never before experienced, such anguish that I would not wish the greatest criminal to endure ten minutes of such misery.  Where was my son?  What was he doing?

“’About midnight, a messenger brought me a note from my lover.  I still know its contents by heart: 

“’Has your son returned?  I did not find him.  I am down here.  I do not want to go up at this hour.”

“’I wrote in pencil on the same slip of paper: 

“’Jean has not returned.  You must find him.”

“’And I ’remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him.

“’I felt as if I were going mad.  I longed to run wildly about, to roll on the ground.  And yet I did not even stir, but kept waiting hour after hour.  What was going to happen?  I tried to imagine, to guess.  But I could form no conception, in spite of my efforts, in spite of the tortures of my soul!

“’And now I feared that they might meet.  What would they do in that case?  What would my son do?  My mind was torn with fearful doubts, with terrible suppositions.

“’You can understand my feelings, can you not, monsieur? “’My chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, came into the room every moment, believing, naturally, that I had lost my reason.  I sent her away with a word or a movement of the hand.  She went for the doctor, who found me in the throes of a nervous attack.

“’I was put to bed.  I had brain fever.

“’When I regained consciousness, after a long illness, I saw beside my bed my—­lover—­alone.

“’I exclaimed: 

“’My son?  Where is my son?

“’He made no reply.  I stammered: 

“’Dead-dead.  Has he committed suicide?

“’No, no, I swear it.  But we have not found him in spite of all my efforts.

“’Then, becoming suddenly exasperated and even indignant—­for women are subject to such outbursts of unaccountable and unreasoning anger—­I said: 

“’I forbid you to come near me or to see me again unless you find him.  Go away!

“He did go away.

“’I have never seen one or the other of them since, monsieur, and thus I have lived for the last twenty years.

“’Can you imagine what all this meant to me?  Can you understand this monstrous punishment, this slow, perpetual laceration of a mother’s heart, this abominable, endless waiting?  Endless, did I say?  No; it is about to end, for I am dying.  I am dying without ever again seeing either of them—­either one or the other!