I
made her the most unhappy of women. I could not love her. I cherished a
most passionate love for a mistress, who had trusted herself to me, and
whom I had loved for a long time. I found her rich in beauty, purity and
mind. Her name was Valerie. My heart is, so to say, dead and cold in me,
sir, but, ah! when I pronounce that name, it still has a great effect
upon me. In spite of my marriage, I could not induce myself to part from
her, though she wished me to. The idea of sharing my love with another
was revolting to her. No doubt she loved me then. Our relations
continued. My wife and my mistress became mothers at nearly the same
time. This coincidence suggested to me the fatal idea of sacrificing
my legitimate son to his less fortunate brother. I communicated this
project to Valerie. To my great surprise, she refused it with horror.
Already the maternal instinct was aroused within her; she would not be
separated from her child. I have preserved, as a monument of my folly,
the letters which she wrote to me at that time. I re-read them only last
night. Ah! why did I not listen to both her arguments and her prayers?
It was because I was mad.
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