His own boy was buried in some unknown common _fosse_ in Paris.

Felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching gaze.
"You have forgiven him ?" she said.
"Yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead." "Oh, Roland! Roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant.
Then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face again.
"It is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but I shall never go there, nor shall the children go, if I can help it." "Hush!" he answered imperatively.

"You, then, have not forgiven him?
Yet I forgive him, who have lost most." "You!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion.

"You have lost a few thousand pounds; but what have I lost?
My faith and trust in goodness; my husband's love and care.

I have lost him, the father of my children, my home--nay, even myself.