I was not born
wicked, but I am a miserable fool. I have hours when, as if in a
vertigo, I do not know what I am doing. Ah! I should not have been
like this, mother, if you had been with me in my childhood. But
brought up among strangers, and left to myself without any guides but
my own instincts, I am at the mercy of my own passions. Possessing
nothing, not even my stolen name, I am vain and devoured by ambition.
Poor and without resources but your help, I have the tastes and vices
of a millionaire's son. Alas! when I recovered you, the harm was done.
Your affection, your maternal tenderness which have given me my only
days of happiness, could not save me. I who have suffered so much, who
have endured so many privations, who have known hunger, have been
spoiled by this new luxury with which you have surrounded me. I threw
myself into pleasure as a drunkard rushes for the strong drink of
which he has been deprived."

Raoul expressed himself with such intense conviction and assurance
that Madame Fauvel did not interrupt.

Mute and terrified, she dared not question him, fearful of learning
some horrible news.

He however continued:--"Yes, I have been a fool. Happiness has passed
by me, and I did not know enough to stretch out my hand to take it. I
have rejected an exquisite reality for the pursuit of a phantom. I,
who should have spent my life by your side and sought constantly for
new proofs of my love and gratitude, I, a dark shadow, give you a
cruel stab, cause you sorrow, and render you the most unfortunate of
beings. Ah! what a brute I have been! For the sake of a creature whom
I should despise, I have thrown to the wind a fortune whose every
piece of gold has cost you a tear! With you lies happiness. I know it
too late."

He stopped, overcome by the thought of his evil conduct, ready to
burst into tears.

"It is never too late to repent, my son," murmured Madame Fauvel, "and
redeem your wrong."

"Ah, if I could!" cried Raoul; "but no, it is too late. Who knows how
long my good resolutions will last? It is not only to-day that I have
condemned myself without pity. Seized by remorse at each new failure,
I have sworn to regain my self-respect. Alas! to what has my
periodical repentance amounted? At the first new temptation I forget
my remorse and my oaths. You consider me a man: I am only an unstable
child. I am weak and cowardly, and you are not strong enough to
dominate my weakness and control my vacillating