Because it is so, because love would shield the beloved from itself if need be, and from all the terrors of the world at any cost, I have done what I have done.

I did it at cost of my honour, but it was for his sake; at the price of my peace, but to spare him.
Ah, Monsieur, the days of life are not many for him: his shame and his futile aims are killing him.

The clouds will soon close over, and his vexed brain and body will be still.

To spare him the last turn of the wheel of torture, to give him the one bare honour left him yet a little while, I have given up my work of life to comfort him.

I concealed, I stole, if you will, the document you hold.