She became pregnant. How could she tell whether by her husband or her lover? More than likely the latter. From then on she was haunted by a dreadful fear. She became convinced that she would die in childbirth. Time and again she made the man who had possessed her promise to look after the child as long as he lived, to refuse the child nothing, to be everything to it, and to do anything, legal or illegal, which would ensure its happiness.

This became a kind of obsession with her and she approached her term in a state of wild exaltation.

She died giving birth to a girl.

The young man’s despair was so deep and so appalling it could not be concealed. The husband, whether because he suspected or knew the child was not his own, shut the door on the man who considered himself the child’s father. He had her hidden from him and brought up in secret.

Many years passed.

As in time all is forgotten, Pierre Martel forgot. But though he became rich he never again fell in love and never married. His life was unexceptional, peaceful and happy. He heard no more about the husband he had cuckolded nor about the young girl he supposed to be his own.

One day, however, he received from a third party a letter in which was casually mentioned the death of his former rival. A feeling of guilt swept over him. What would become of his child? Perhaps there was something he could do. He made enquiries. Apparently she had been taken in by an aunt. She was living in dire poverty verging on destitution. He wanted to see and help her.

He got in touch with the only relative of the orphan. His name meant nothing to this person. He was a young-looking forty. Fearful of arousing suspicion he said nothing of his relationship with the girl’s mother and was duly received.

When she walked into the little parlour where he was anxiously waiting, he had a violent, terrifying shock. It was she! The other girl! The dead girl! She was the same age, had the same eyes, the same hair, the same figure, the same smile, and even the same voice. The resemblance was so great that he nearly went out of his mind. He felt himself going completely mad. All his previous love came surging up from the depths of his heart. She, too, was cheerful and open. They shook hands and became friends immediately.

When he returned home he realized that the old wound had re-opened and, with his head buried in his hands, he wept inconsolably. He wept for the other girl. He was haunted now by the memory of her and by the old familiar things she used to say. Suddenly he was plunged again into the blackest despair.