I don't think he ever
was sorry for me or for you, until perhaps these last few weeks; but
I have sorrowed ever since the day you came to me very day, every
hour, every minute; and the more because I could not tell John Grier
the truth.
Perhaps I ought to have told the truth long ago, and faced the
consequences. It might seem now that I would have ruined my home
life, and yours, and Barode Barouche's, and John Grier's life if I
had told the truth; but who knows! There are many outcomes to
life's tragedies, and none might have been what I fancied. It is
little comfort that Barode Barouche has now given all for payment of
his debt. It gives no peace of mind. And it may be you will think
I ought not to tell you the truth. I don't know, but I feel you
will not misunderstand. I tell you my story, so that you may again
consider if it is not better to face the world with the truth about
Luzanne. We can live but once, and it is to our good if we refuse
the secret way. It is right you should know the truth about your
birth, but it is not right you should declare it to all the world
now. That was my duty long ago, and I did not do it. It is not
your duty, and you must not do it. Barode Barouche is gone; John
Grier has gone; and it would only hurt Fabian and his wife and you
to tell it now.
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