He described in his letter her last moments, and the calmness with which she met death, and added: 

“One thing, which perhaps you will not understand, is the remorse which is mingled with my sorrow.  I lived with her forty years, and have some right to be called ‘a good son.’  But, when I compare the proofs of affection I gave her with those she gave me, the sacrifices I made for her with those she made for me; when I think of the egoism which found its way into our common life, on which I founded my claims to merit, of the wealth of tenderness and sympathy with which she repaid a few walks on my arm, a few kind words, and of her really great forbearance in dwelling beneath the same roof with me—­I feel that I was ungrateful, and not worthy of the happiness I enjoyed.

“I am tortured by the thought that it is impossible for me to repair all my neglect, to pay a debt the greatness of which I now recognize for the first time.  She is gone.  All is over.  My prayers alone can reach her, can tell her that I loved her, that I worshipped her, that I might have been capable of doing all that I have left undone for her.

   “Oh, my friend, what pleasant duties have I lost!  I mean, at least,
   to fulfil her last wishes, and it is on account of one of them that
   I am writing to you.

“You know that my mother was never quite pleased at my keeping at home the portrait of her who was my first and only love.  She would have preferred that my eyes did not recall so often to my heart the recollection of my long-past sorrows.  I withstood her.  On her death-bed she begged me to give up the picture to, those who should have had it long ago.  ’So long as I was here to comfort you in the sorrows which the sight of it revived in you,’ she said, ’I did not press this upon you; but soon you will be left alone, with no one to raise you when your spirits fail you.  They have often begged you to give up the picture to them.  The time is come for you to grant their prayers.’

   “I promised.

   “And now, dear friend, help me to keep my promise.  I do not wish to
   write to them.  My hand would tremble, and they would tremble when
   they saw my writing.  Go and see them.

“They live about nine miles from Milan, on the Monza road, but beyond that town, close to the village of Desio.  The villa is called Dannegianti, after its owners.  It used to be hidden among poplars, and its groves were famous for their shade.  You must send in your card to the old lady of the house together with mine.  They will receive you.  Then you must break the news to them as you think best, that, in accordance with the dying wish of Sylvestre Lampron’s mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in perpetuity to the Villa Dannegianti.  Given, you understand.

   “You may even tell them that it is on its way.  I have just arranged
   with Plumet about packing it.  He is a good workman, as you know. 
   To-morrow all will be ready, and my home an absolute void.