t I would not wish the greatest
criminal to endure 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 find him."

"'And I 'remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him.

"'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to run wildly about, to roll 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 I feared that they might meet. What would they do in that case?
What would my son do? My mind was torn with fearful doubts, with terrible
suppositions.

"'You can understand my feelings, can you not, monsieur? "'My
chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, came into the room
every moment, believing, naturally, that I had lost my reason. I sent her
away with a word or a movement of the hand. She went for the doctor, who
found me in the throes of a nervous attack.

"'I was put to bed. I had brain fever.

"'When I regained consciousness, after a long illness, I saw beside my
bed my--lover--alone.

"'I exclaimed:

"'My son? Where is my son?

"'He made no reply. I stammered:

"'Dead-dead. Has he committed suicide?

"'No, no, I swear it. But we have not found him in spite of all my
efforts.

"'Then, becoming suddenly exasperated and even indignant--for women
are subject to such outbursts of unaccountable and unreasoning
anger--I said:

"'I forbid you to come near me or to see me again unless you find him. Go
away!

"He did go away.

"'I have never seen one or the other of them since, monsieur, and thus I
have lived for the last twenty years.

"'Can you imagine what all this meant to me? Can you understand this
monstrous punishment, this slow, perpetual laceration of a mother's
heart, this abominable, endless waiting? Endless, did I say? No; it is
about to end, for I am dying. I am dying without ever again seeing either
of them--either one or the other!

"'He--the man I loved--has written to me every day for the last
twenty years; and I--I have never consented to see him, even for one
second; for I had a strange fee