avocations. He is still living.

Though Madeleine could see me on the terrace, she did not come down.
Several times she came out upon the portico and went back in again, as

if to signify her contempt. I seized a moment when she appeared to beg
the count to go to the house and call her, saying I had a last wish of

her mother to convey to her, and this would be my only opportunity of
doing so. The count brought her, and left us alone together on the

terrace.
"Dear Madeleine," I said, "if I am to speak to you, surely it should

be here where your mother listened to me when she felt she had less
reason to complain of me than of the circumstances of life. I know

your thoughts; but are you not condemning me without a knowledge of
the facts? My life and happiness are bound up in this place; you know

that, and yet you seek to banish me by the coldness you show, in place
of the brotherlyaffection which has always united us, and which death

should have strengthened by the bonds of a common grief. Dear
Madeleine, you for whom I would gladly give my life without hope of

recompense, without your even knowing it,--so deeply do we love the
children of those who have succored us,--you are not aware of the

project your adorable mother cherished during the last seven years. If
you knew it your feelings would doubtlesssoften towards me; but I do

not wish to take advantage of you now. All that I ask is that you do
not deprive me of the right to come here, to breathe the air on this

terrace, and to wait until time has changed your ideas of social life.
At this moment I desire not to ruffle them; I respect a grief which

misleads you, for it takes even from me the power of judging soberly
the circumstances in which I find myself. The saint who now looks down

upon us will approve the reticence with which I simply ask that you
stand neutral between your present feelings and my wishes. I love you

too well, in spite of the aversion you are showing me, to say one word
to the count of a proposal he would welcomeeagerly. Be free. Later,

remember that you know no one in the world as you know me, that no man
will ever have more devoted feelings--"

Up to this moment Madeleine had listened with lowered eyes; now she
stopped me by a gesture.

"Monsieur," she said, in a voice trembling with emotion. "I know all
your thoughts; but I shall not change my feelings towards you. I would

rather fling myself into the Indre than ally myself to you. I will not
speak to you of myself, but if my mother's name still possesses any

power over you, in her name I beg you never to return to Clochegourde
so long as I am in it. The mere sight of you causes me a repugnance I

cannot express, but which I shall never overcome."
She bowed to me with dignity, and returned to the house without

looking back, impassible as her mother had been for one day only, but
more pitiless. The searching eye of that young girl had discovered,

though tardily, the secrets of her mother's heart, and her hatred to
the man whom she fancied fatal to her mother's life may have been

increased by a sense of her innocent complicity.
All before me was now chaos. Madeleine hated me, without considering

whether I was the cause or the victim of these misfortunes. She might
have hated us equally, her mother and me, had we been happy. Thus it

was that the edifice of my happiness fell in ruins. I alone knew the
life of that unknown, noble woman. I alone had entered every region of

her soul; neither mother, father, husband, nor children had ever known
her.--Strange truth! I stir this heap of ashes and take pleasure in

spreading them before you; all hearts may find something in them of
their closest experience. How many families have had their Henriette!

How many noble feelings have left this earth with no historian to
fathom their hearts, to measure the depth and breadth of their

spirits. Such is human life in all its truth! Often mothers know their
children as little as their children know them. So it is with

husbands, lovers, brothers. Did I imagine that one day, beside my
father's coffin, I should contend with my brother Charles, for whose

advancement I had done so much? Good God! how many lessons in the
simplest history.

When Madeleine disappeared into the house, I went away with a broken
heart. Bidding farewell to my host at Sache, I started for Paris,

following the right bank of the Indre, the one I had taken when I
entered the valley for the first time. Sadly I drove through the

pretty village of Pont-de-Ruan. Yet I was rich, political life courted
me; I was not the weary plodder of 1814. Then my heart was full of

eager desires, now my eyes were full of tears; once my life was all
before me to fill as I could, now I knew it to be a desert. I was

still young,--only twenty-nine,--but my heart was withered. A few
years had sufficed to despoil that landscape of its early glory, and

to disgust me with life. You can imagine my feelings when, on turning
round, I saw Madeleine on the terrace.

A prey to imperioussadness, I gave no thought to the end of my
journey. Lady Dudley was far, indeed, from my mind, and I entered the

courtyard of her house without reflection. The folly once committed, I
was forced to carry it out. My habits were conjugal in her house, and

I went upstairs thinking of the annoyances of a rupture. If you have
fully understood the character and manners of Lady Dudley, you can

imagine my discomfiture when her majordomo ushered me, still in my
travelling dress, into a salon where I found her sumptuously dressed

and surrounded by four persons. Lord Dudley, one of the most
distinguished old statesmen of England, was standing with his back to

the fireplace, stiff, haughty, frigid, with the sarcastic air he
doubtless wore in parliament; he smiled when he heard my name.

Arabella's two children, who were amazingly like de Marsay (a natural
son of the old lord), were near their mother; de Marsay himself was on

the sofa beside her. As soon as Arabella saw me she assumed a distant
air, and glanced at my travelling cap as if to ask what brought me

there. She looked me over from head to foot, as though I were some
country gentlemen just presented to her. As for our intimacy, that

eternal passion, those vows of suicide if I ceased to love her, those
visions of Armida, all had vanished like a dream. I had never clasped

her hand; I was a stranger; she knew me not. In spite of the
diplomatic self-possession to which I was gradually being trained, I

was confounded; and all others in my place would have felt the same.
De Marsay smiled at his boots, which he examined with remarkable

interest. I decided at once upon my course. From any other woman I
should modestly have accepted my defeat; but, outraged at the glowing

appearance of the heroine who had vowed to die for love, and who had
scoffed at the woman who was really dead, I resolved to meet insolence

with insolence. She knew very well the misfortunes of Lady Brandon; to
remind her of them was to send a dagger to her heart, though the

weapon might be blunted by the blow.
"Madame," I said, "I am sure you will pardon my unceremonious

entrance, when I tell you that I have just arrived from Touraine, and
that Lady Brandon has given me a message for you which allows of no

delay. I feared you had already started for Lancashire, but as you are
still in Paris I will await your orders at any hour you may be pleased

to appoint."
She bowed, and I left the room. Since that day I have only met her in

society, where we exchange a friendly bow, and occasionally a sarcasm.
I talk to her of the inconsolable women of Lancashire; she makes

allusion to Frenchwomen who dignify their gastric troubles by calling
them despair. Thanks to her, I have a mortal enemy in de Marsay, of

whom she is very fond. In return, I call her the wife of two
generations.

So my disaster was complete; it lacked nothing. I followed the plan I
had laid out for myself during my retreat at Sache; I plunged into

work and gave myself wholly to science, literature, and politics. I
entered the diplomatic service on the accession of Charles X., who

suppressed the employment I held under the late king. From that moment
I was firmlyresolved to pay no further attention to any woman, no

matter how beautiful, witty, or loving she might be. This
determination succeeded admirably; I obtained a really marvellous

tranquillity of mind, and great powers of work, and I came to
understand how much these women waste our lives, believing, all the

while, that a few gracious words will repay us.
But--all my resolutions came to naught; you know how and why. Dear

Natalie, in telling you my life, without reserve, without concealment,
precisely as I tell it to myself, in relating to you feelings in which

you have had no share, perhaps I have wounded some corner of your
sensitive and jealous heart. But that which might anger a common woman

will be to you--I feel sure of it--an additional reason for loving me.
Noble women have indeed a sublimemission to fulfil to suffering and