Again he paused as if fearing to have said too much.
"And what conclusion did you draw from this?" she asked, resolved to hear the worst.
"That by your marriage with Monsieur de Mauluçon Olivier was then made legitimate."
She recoiled, pale and terrified. Never had such a possibility crossed her mind: her husband, the soul of loyalty and honour, he to be suspected!
"You are mistaken," she said, and added, now quite calm and self-possessed—
"Olivier bears the name of Monsieur de Mauluçon, but he is not his son ... he is mine."
Vaughan made a gesture as if to prevent her continuing. He knew too much now. Deeply affected and embarrassed, he murmured a confused apology, overcome with admiration before this woman, who so frankly confessed her shame rather than let suspicion rest for a moment on a husband whose memory she revered. She led her companion to the trunk on which she had been sitting with her son, and asking him to listen to her story, she told of her youthful folly, her isolated life, her fall, and the cowardly desertion of the young secretary, whose name, however, she concealed; then of the noble generosity of Monsieur de Mauluçon, who had effaced the past by adopting as his own her son.
"Olivier knows nothing, of course?" asked Vaughan.
"Absolutely nothing. He thinks he is Monsieur de Mauluçon's son."
Vaughan took both her hands in his.