And they loved her as they never had loved her before.  They measured the depth of their grief, and thus they discovered how lonely they would find themselves.

It was their prop, their guide, their whole youth, all the best part of their lives which was disappearing.  It was their bond with life, their mother, their mamma, the connecting link with their forefathers which they would thenceforth miss.  They now became solitary, lonely beings; they could no longer look back.

The nun said to her brother:  “You remember how mamma used always to read her old letters; they are all there in that drawer.  Let us, in turn, read them; let us live her whole life through tonight beside her!  It would be like a road to the cross, like making the acquaintance of her mother, of our grandparents, whom we never knew, but whose letters are there and of whom she so often spoke, do you remember?”

Out of the drawer they took about ten little packages of yellow paper, tied with care and arranged one beside the other.  They threw these relics on the bed and chose one of them on which the word “Father” was written.  They opened and read it.

It was one of those old-fashioned letters which one finds in old family desk drawers, those epistles which smell of another century.  The first one started:  “My dear,” another one:  “My beautiful little girl,” others:  “My dear child,” or:  “My dear (laughter).”  And suddenly the nun began to read aloud, to read over to the dead woman her whole history, all her tender memories.  The judge, resting his elbow on the bed, was listening with his eyes fastened on his mother.  The motionless body seemed happy.

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly: 

“These ought to be put in the grave with her; they ought to be used as a shroud and she ought to be buried in it.”  She took another package, on which no name was written.  She began to read in a firm voice:  “My adored one, I love you wildly.  Since yesterday I have been suffering the tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory.  I feel your lips against mine, your eyes in mine, your breast against mine.  I love you, I love you!  You have driven me mad.  My arms open, I gasp, moved by a wild desire to hold you again.  My whole soul and body cries out for you, wants you.  I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses—­”

The judge had straightened himself up.  The nun stopped reading.  He snatched the letter from her and looked for the signature.  There was none, but only under the words, “The man who adores you,” the name “Henry.”  Their father’s name was Rene.  Therefore this was not from him.  The son then quickly rummaged through the package of letters, took one out and read:  “I can no longer live without your caresses.”  Standing erect, severe as when sitting on the bench, he looked unmoved at the dead woman.  The nun, straight as a statue, tears trembling in the corners of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting.  Then he crossed the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the dark night.