first stab by writing to her of Lady Dudley.
My hurried journey was like a dream,--the dream of a ruined gambler; I

was in despair at having received no news. Had the confessor pushed
austerity so far as to exclude me from Clochegourde? I accused

Madeleine, Jacques, the Abbe Dominis, all, even Monsieur de Mortsauf.
Beyond Tours, as I came down the road bordered with poplars which

leads to Poncher, which I so much admired that first day of my search
for mine Unknown, I met Monsieur Origet. He guessed that I was going

to Clochegourde; I guessed that he was returning. We stopped our
carriages and got out, I to ask for news, he to give it.

"How is Madame de Mortsauf?" I said.
"I doubt if you find her living," he replied. "She is dying a

frightful death--of inanition. When she called me in, last June, no
medical power could control the disease; she had the symptoms which

Monsieur de Mortsauf has no doubt described to you, for he thinks he
has them himself. Madame la comtesse was not in any transient

condition of ill-health, which our profession can direct and which is
often the cause of a better state, nor was she in the crisis of a

disorder the effects of which can be repaired; no, her disease had
reached a point where science is useless; it is the incurable result

of grief, just as a mortal wound is the result of a stab. Her physical
condition is produced by the inertia of an organ as necessary to life

as the action of the heart itself. Grief has done the work of a
dagger. Don't deceive yourself; Madame de Mortsauf is dying of some

hidden grief."
"Hidden!" I exclaimed. "Her children have not been ill?"

"No," he said, looking at me significantly, "and since she has been so
seriously attacked Monsieur de Mortsauf has ceased to torment her. I

am no longer needed; Monsieur Deslandes of Azay is all-sufficient;
nothing can be done; her sufferings are dreadful. Young, beautiful,

and rich, to die emaciated, shrunken with hunger--for she dies of
hunger! During the last forty days the stomach, being as it were

closed up, has rejected all nourishment, under whatever form we
attempt to give it."

Monsieur Origet pressed my hand with a gesture of respect.
"Courage, monsieur," he said, lifting his eyes to heaven.

The words expressed his compassion for sufferings he thought shared;
he little suspected the poisoned arrow which they shot into my heart.

I sprang into the carriage and ordered the postilion to drive on,
promising a good reward if I arrived in time.

Notwithstanding my impatience I seemed to do the distance in a few
minutes, so absorbed was I in the bitter reflections that crowded upon

my soul. Dying of grief, yet her children were well? then she died
through me! My conscience uttered one of those arraignments which echo

throughout our lives and sometimes beyond them. What weakness, what
impotence in human justice, which avenges none but open deeds! Why

shame and death to the murderer who kills with a blow, who comes upon
you unawares in your sleep and makes it last eternally, who strikes

without warning and spares you a struggle? Why a happy life, an
honored life, to the murderer who drop by drop pours gall into the

soul and saps the body to destroy it? How many murderers go
unpunished! What indulgence for fashionable vice! What condoning of

the homicides caused by moral wrongs! I know not whose avenging hand
it was that suddenly, at that moment, raised the painted curtain that

reveals society. I saw before me many victims known to you and me,--
Madame de Beauseant, dying, and starting for Normandy only a few days

earlier; the Duchesse de Langeais lost; Lady Brandon hiding herself in
Touraine in the little house where Lady Dudley had stayed two weeks,

and dying there, killed by a frightful catastrophe,--you know it. Our
period teems with such events. Who does not remember that poor young

woman who poisoned herself, overcome by jealousy, which was perhaps
killing Madame de Mortsauf? Who has not shuddered at the fate of that

enchanting young girl who perished after two years of marriage, like a
flower torn by the wind, the victim of her chasteignorance, the

victim of a villain with whom Ronquerolles, Montriveau, and de Marsay
shake hands because he is useful to their political projects? What

heart has failed to throb at the recital of the last hours of the
woman whom no entreaties could soften, and who would never see her

husband after nobly paying his debts? Madame d'Aiglemont saw death
beside her and was saved only by my brother's care. Society and

science are accomplices in crimes for which there are no assizes. The
world declares that no one dies of grief, or of despair; nor yet of

love, of anguishhidden, of hopes cultivated yet fruitless, again and
again replanted yet forever uprooted. Our new scientific nomenclature

has plenty of words to explain these things; gastritis, pericarditis,
all the thousand maladies of women the names of which are whispered in

the ear, all serve as passports to the coffin followed by hypocritical
tears that are soon wiped by the hand of a notary. Can there be at the

bottom of this great evil some law which we do not know? Must the
centenary pitilessly strew the earth with corpses and dry them to dust

about him that he may raise himself, as the millionaire battens on a
myriad of little industries? Is there some powerful and venomous life

which feasts on these gentle, tender creatures? My God! do I belong to
the race of tigers?

Remorse gripped my heart in its scorching fingers, and my cheeks were
furrowed with tears as I entered the avenue of Clochegourde on a damp

October morning, which loosened the dead leaves of the poplars planted
by Henriette in the path where once she stood and waved her

handkerchief as if to recall me. Was she living? Why did I feel her
two white hands upon my head laid prostrate in the dust? In that

moment I paid for all the pleasures that Arabella had given me, and I
knew that I paid dearly. I swore not to see her again, and a hatred of

England took possession of me. Though Lady Dudley was only a variety
of her species, I included all Englishwomen in my judgment.

I received a fresh shock as I neared Clochegourde. Jacques, Madeleine,
and the Abbe Dominis were kneeling at the foot of a wooden cross

placed on a piece of ground that was taken into the enclosure when the
iron gate was put up, which the count and countess had never been

willing to remove. I sprang from the carriage and went towards them,
my heart aching at the sight of these children and that grave old man

imploring the mercy of God. The old huntsman was there too, with bared
head, standing a little apart.

I stooped to kiss Jacques and Madeleine, who gave me a cold look and
continued praying. The abbe rose from his knees; I took him by the arm

to support myself, saying, "Is she still alive?" He bowed his head
sadly and gently. "Tell me, I implore you for Christ's sake, why are

you praying at the foot of this cross? Why are you here, and not with
her? Why are the children kneeling here this chilly morning? Tell me

all, that I may do no harm through ignorance."
"For the last few days Madame le comtesse has been unwilling to see

her children except at stated times.--Monsieur," he continued after a
pause, "perhaps you had better wait a few hours before seeing Madame

de Mortsauf; she is greatly changed. It is necessary to prepare her
for this interview, or it might cause an increase in her sufferings--

death would be a blessedrelease from them."
I wrung the hand of the good man, whose look and voice soothed the

pangs of others without sharpening them.
"We are praying God to help her," he continued; "for she, so saintly,

so resigned, so fit to die, has shown during the last few weeks a
horror of death; for the first time in her life she looks at others

who are full of health with gloomy, envious eyes. This aberration
comes less, I think, from the fear of death than from some inward

intoxication,--from the flowers of her youth which ferment as they
wither. Yes, an evil angel is striving against heaven for that

glorious soul. She is passing through her struggle on the Mount of
Olives; her tears bathe the white roses of her crown as they fall, one

by one, from the head of this wedded Jephtha. Wait; do not see her
yet. You would bring to her the atmosphere of the court; she would see

in your face the reflection of the things of life, and you would add
to the bitterness of her regret. Have pity on a weakness which God

Himself forgave to His Son when He took our nature upon Him. What
merit would there be in conquering if we had no adversary? Permit her

confessor or me, two old men whose worn-out lives cause her no pain,
to prepare her for this unlooked-for meeting, for emotions which the

Abbe Birotteau has required her to renounce. But, in the things of
this world there is an invisible thread of divine purpose which