He then explained to her how he had found them among a bundle of papers which her husband had been sorting, in order to burn the most compromising, when death overtook him. He--Vaughan, the confidant of his last moments--had completed this task. Among the letters, acts, and accounts, relating chiefly to politics and the different movements of the Chouans and the emigrants, he had found several family documents, some insignificant, others of more importance. These he had laid aside for Clarisse's perusal. "I will now make a confession," he continued, "which must be made sooner or later." He stopped embarrassed, and then, as if suddenly resolved, added-- "The work of classification has put me in possession of a family secret. Among the papers which I have to return to you are the birth and baptismal certificates of Olivier." Clarisse looked at him anxiously. He continued after a pause-- "In glancing over these I perceived that both were dated 1775, that is, two years before your marriage." Again he paused as if fearing to have said too much. "And what conclusion did you draw from this?" she asked, resolved to hear the worst. "That by your marriage with Monsieur de Mauluçon Olivier was then made legitimate." She recoiled, pale and terrified. Never had such a possibility crossed her mind: her husband, the soul of loyalty and honour, he to be suspected! "You are mistaken," she said, and added, now quite calm and self-possessed-- "Olivier bears the name of Monsieur de Mauluçon, but he is not his son ... he is mine." Vaughan made a gesture as if to prevent her continuing. He knew too much now. Deeply affected and embarrassed, he murmured a confused apology, overcome with admiration before this woman, who so frankly confessed her shame rather than let suspicion rest for a moment on a husband whose memory she revered. She led her companion to the trunk on which she had been sitting with her son, and asking him to listen to her story, she told of her youthful folly, her isolated life, her fall, and the cowardly desertion of the young secretary, whose name, however, she concealed; then of the noble generosity of Monsieur de Mauluçon, who had effaced the past by adopting as his own her son. "Olivier knows nothing, of course?" asked Vaughan. "Absolutely nothing. He thinks he is Monsieur de Mauluçon's son." Vaughan took both her hands in his. "You have suffered much," he said. "May the rest of your years be years of joy and happiness!" "God grant it!" she answered. "But it is hardly to be hoped in such fearful times of trouble and uncertainty." He did not reply at once, but seemed preoccupied. Then he said suddenly, as if continuing his thoughts aloud-- "Why don't you come with me to England?" "Are you returning, then?" "Yes, in a few days." She gave a little cry of joy, then added regretfully-- "It is useless to think of it. There is always that question of passport in the way." Vaughan reassured her.