Ghosts (French Edition)

For the past three years, I had been having an affair with the wife of my best friend. Yes, my best friend. I would search in vain through my past for the memory of a being who had been more faithfully attentive, more spontaneously devoted to me. On several occasions, during the critical junctures of my life, I had turned to his affection, and he had generously offered me his assistance, his time, and his purse. I had always made use of his goodwill simply, and I was grateful for it. He had replaced the lost affections of my youth, and had watched over my dying mother. Whenever a trial or a vexation befell me, he would weep with me, even more so than I, for nature had shielded me against the effects of easy sentimentality. It is freely, willingly, that I render him this homage. Who, then, could compel me to do so?

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