The Marquis made a reply which astonished him greatly. "I cannot explain to you my courage," he said, "except by my devotion to my mother and by my love for study, since, as for happiness, I never had it and never shall have it. That, perhaps, is not what I should say to allure you to a quiet and retired life; but I would commit a crime not to be sincere with you; and besides, I shall never make myself a pretender to virtue, though you have slightly accused me of that eccentricity." "It is true; I was very wrong; I see it now. But how and why are you unhappy, my poor brother? Can you tell me?" "I cannot tell you, but I will confide in you. I have loved!" "You? you have loved a woman? When was that?" "It is now a long time ago, and I loved her a long time." "And you do not love her any more?" "She is dead." "She was a married woman?" "Precisely, and her husband is yet living. You will permit me to conceal her name." "There is no need whatever to mention that; but you will conquer this feeling, will you not?" "I do not positively know. Up to the present time I have not succeeded at all." "She has not been dead long?" "Three years." "She loved you then very much?" "No." "How, no?" "She loved me as much as a woman can love who ought not and will not break with her husband." "Bah! that's no reason; on the contrary, obstacles stimulate passion." "And they wear it out. She was weary with deceiving, and consequently of suffering. It was only the fear of driving me to despair that hindered her from breaking with me. I was greatly wanting in courage. She died a suffering death,--and through my fault!" "But no, O no! You imagine that to torment yourself." "I imagine nothing, and my grief is without resource, as my fault is without excuse. You shall see. There came one of those paroxysms of passion in which we wish, in spite of God and men, to appropriate forever the object of our love. She bore me a son whom I saved, concealed, and who still lives; but she, not wishing to give a foothold to suspicion, made her appearance in society the day after her delivery. There she seemed still beautiful, and full of her wonted animation; she spoke and walked, notwithstanding the fever which was devouring her: twenty-four hours afterwards she was a corpse. Nothing was ever known. She passed for the most rigid person--" "I know who it was,--Madame de G----." "Yes, you alone in the whole world possess the secret." "Ah! Do not be so sure. Does not our mother herself suspect it?" "Our mother suspects nothing." The Duke was silent for a moment, then he said with a sigh, "My poor brother, this child that is living, and that you probably cherish--" "Certainly." "And I have ruined him too."