"How, no?"
"She loved me as much as a woman can love who ought not and will not break with her husband."
"Bah! that's no reason; on the contrary, obstacles stimulate passion."
"And they wear it out. She was weary with deceiving, and consequently of suffering. It was only the fear of driving me to despair that hindered her from breaking with me. I was greatly wanting in courage. She died a suffering death,—and through my fault!"
"But no, O no! You imagine that to torment yourself."
"I imagine nothing, and my grief is without resource, as my fault is without excuse. You shall see. There came one of those paroxysms of passion in which we wish, in spite of God and men, to appropriate forever the object of our love. She bore me a son whom I saved, concealed, and who still lives; but she, not wishing to give a foothold to suspicion, made her appearance in society the day after her delivery. There she seemed still beautiful, and full of her wonted animation; she spoke and walked, notwithstanding the fever which was devouring her: twenty-four hours afterwards she was a corpse. Nothing was ever known. She passed for the most rigid person—"
"I know who it was,—Madame de G——."
"Yes, you alone in the whole world possess the secret."
"Ah! Do not be so sure. Does not our mother herself suspect it?"
"Our mother suspects nothing."