through the foliage. Seized with compassion for the shipwreck of our

lives she turned back to memories of our pure past, yielding to
meditations which were mutual. We were silent, recalling past scenes;

our eyes went from the valley to the fields, from the windows of
Clochegourde to those of Frapesle, peopling the dream with my

bouquets, the fragrant language of our desires. It was her last hour
of pleasure, enjoyed with the purity of her Catholic soul. This scene,

so grand to each of us, cast its melancholy on both. She believed my
words, and saw where I placed her--in the skies.

"My friend," she said, "I obey God, for his hand is in all this."
I did not know until much later the deep meaning of her words. We

slowly returned up the terraces. She took my arm and leaned upon it
resignedly, bleeding still, but with a bandage on her wound.

"Human life is thus," she said. "What had Monsieur de Mortsauf done to
deserve his fate? It proves the existence of a better world. Alas, for

those who walk in happier ways!"
She went on, estimating life so truly, considering its diverse aspects

so profoundly that these cold judgments revealed to me the disgust
that had come upon her for all things here below. When we reached the

portico she dropped my arm and said these last words: "If God has
given us the sentiment and the desire for happiness ought he not to

take charge himself of innocent souls who have found sorrow only in
this low world? Either that must be so, or God is not, and our life is

no more than a cruel jest."
She entered and turned the house quickly; I found her on the sofa,

crouching, as though blasted by the voice which flung Saul to the
ground.

"What is the matter?" I asked.
"I no longer know what is virtue," she replied; "I have no

consciousness of my own."
We were silent, petrified, listening to the echo of those words which

fell like a stone cast into a gulf.
"If I am mistaken in my life SHE is right in HERS," Henriette said at

last.
Thus her last struggle followed her last happiness. When the count

came in she complained of illness, she who never complained. I
conjured her to tell me exactly where she suffered; but she refused to

explain and went to bed, leaving me a prey to unending remorse.
Madeleine went with her mother, and the next day I heard that the

countess had been seized with nausea, caused, she said, by the violent
excitements of that day. Thus I, who longed to give my life for hers,

I was killing her.
"Dear count," I said to Monsieur de Mortsauf, who obliged me to play

backgammon, "I think the countess very seriously ill. There is still
time to save her; pray send for Origet, and persuade her to follow his

advice."
"Origet, who half killed me?" cried the count. "No, no; I'll consult

Carbonneau."
During this week, especially the first days of it, everything was

anguish to me--the beginning of paralysis of the heart--my vanity was
mortified, my soul rent. One must needs have been the centre of all

looks and aspirations, the mainspring of the life about him, the torch
from which all others drew their light, to understand the horror of

the void that was now about me. All things were there, the same, but
the spirit that gave life to them was extinct, like a blown-out flame.

I now understood the desperate desire of lovers never to see each
other again when love has flown. To be nothing where we were once so

much! To find the chilling silence of the grave where life so lately
sparkled! Such comparisons are overwhelming. I came at last to envy

the dismalignorance of all happiness which had darkened my youth. My
despair became so great that the countess, I thought, felt pity for

it. One day after dinner as we were walking on the meadows beside the
river I made a last effort to obtainforgiveness. I told Jacques to go

on with his sister, and leaving the count to walk alone, I took
Henriette to the punt.

"Henriette," I said; "one word of forgiveness, or I fling myself into
the Indre! I have sinned,--yes, it is true; but am I not like a dog in

his faithful attachments? I return like him, like him ashamed. If he
does wrong he is struck, but he loves the hand that strikes him;

strike me, bruise me, but give me back your heart."
"Poor child," she said, "are you not always my son?"

She took my arm and silently rejoined her children, with whom she
returned to Clochegourde, leaving me to the count, who began to talk

politics apropos of his neighbors.
"Let us go in," I said; "you are bare-headed, and the dew may do you

an injury."
"You pity me, my dear Felix," he answered; "you understand me, but my

wife never tries to comfort me,--on principle, perhaps."
Never would she have left me to walk home with her husband; it was now

I who had to find excuses to join her. I found her with her children,
explaining the rules of backgammon to Jacques.

"See there," said the count, who was always jealous of the affection
she showed for her children; "it is for them that I am neglected.

Husbands, my dear Felix, are always suppressed. The most virtuous
woman in the world has ways of satisfying her desire to rob conjugal

affection."
She said nothing and continued as before.

"Jacques," he said, "come here."
Jacques objected slightly.

"Your father wants you; go at once, my son," said his mother, pushing
him.

"They love me by order," said the old man, who sometimes perceived his
situation.

"Monsieur," she answered, passing her hand over Madeleine's smooth
tresses, which were dressed that day "a la belle Ferronniere"; "do not

be unjust to us poor women; life is not so easy for us to bear.
Perhaps the children are the virtues of a mother."

"My dear," said the count, who took it into his head to be logical,
"what you say signifies that women who have no children would have no

virtue, and would leave their husbands in the lurch."
The countess rose hastily and took Madeleine to the portico.

"That's marriage, my dear fellow," remarked the count to me. "Do you
mean to imply by going off in that manner that I am talking nonsense?"

he cried to his wife, taking his son by the hand and going to the
portico after her with a furious look in his eyes.

"On the contrary, Monsieur, you frightened me. Your words hurt me
cruelly," she added, in a hollow voice. "If virtue does not consist in

sacrificing everything to our children and our husband, what is
virtue?"

"Sac-ri-ficing!" cried the count, making each syllable the blow of a
sledge-hammer on the heart of his victim. "What have you sacrificed to

your children? What do you sacrifice to me? Speak! what means all
this? Answer. What is going on here? What did you mean by what you

said?"
"Monsieur," she replied, "would you be satisfied to be loved for love

of God, or to know your wife virtuous for virtue's sake?"
"Madame is right," I said, interposing in a shaken voice which

vibrated in two hearts; "yes, the noblest privilege conferred by
reason is to attribute our virtues to the beings whose happiness is

our work, and whom we render happy, not from policy, nor from duty,
but from an inexhaustible and voluntary affection--"

A tear shone in Henriette's eyes.
"And, dear count," I continued, "if by chance a woman is involuntarily

subjected to feelings other than those society imposes on her, you
must admit that the more irresistible that feeling is, the more

virtuous she is in smothering it, in sacrificing herself to her
husband and children. This theory is not applicable to me who

unfortunately show an example to the contrary, nor to you whom it will