"'And he hurried away.
"'I waited—I waited in a distracted frame of mind, trembling at the least sound, convulsed with terror, and filled with some unutterably strange and intolerable emotion by every slight crackling of the fire in the grate.
"'I waited for an hour, for two hours, feeling my heart swell with a dread I had never before experienced, such an anguish that I would not wish the greatest of criminals to have 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 go and find him."
"'And I remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him.
"'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to have to run wildly about, to roll myself 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 my apprehension was lest they might meet. What would they do in that case? What would my son do? My mind was lacerated by fearful doubts, by terrible suppositions.