likeness that it bears to the destinies of so vast a number of women.
Everything at Clochegourde bore signs of a truly English cleanliness.

The room in which the countess received us was panelled throughout and
painted in two shades of gray. The mantelpiece was ornamented with a

clock inserted in a block of mahogany and surmounted with a tazza, and
two large vases of white porcelain with gold lines, which held bunches

of Cape heather. A lamp was on a pier-table, and a backgammon board on
legs before the fireplace. Two wide bands of cotton held back the

white cambric curtains, which had no fringe. The furniture was covered
with gray cotton bound with a green braid, and the tapestry on the

countess's frame told why the upholstery was thus covered. Such
simplicity rose to grandeur. No apartment, among all that I have seen

since, has given me such fertile, such teeming impressions as those
that filled my mind in that salon of Clochegourde, calm and composed

as the life of its mistress, where the conventual regularity of her
occupations made itself felt. The greater part of my ideas in science

or politics, even the boldest of them, were born in that room, as
perfumes emanate from flowers; there grew the mysterious plant that

cast upon my soul its fructifying pollen; there glowed the solar
warmth which developed my good and shrivelled my evil qualities.

Through the windows the eye took in the valley from the heights of
Pont-de-Ruan to the chateau d'Azay, following the windings of the

further shore, picturesquely varied by the towers of Frapesle, the
church, the village, and the old manor-house of Sache, whose venerable

pile looked down upon the meadows.
In harmony with this reposeful life, and without other excitements to

emotion than those arising in the family, this scene conveyed to the
soul its own serenity. If I had met her there for the first time,

between the count and her two children, instead of seeing her
resplendent in a ball dress, I should not have ravished that delirious

kiss, which now filled me with remorse and with the fear of having
lost the future of my love. No; in the gloom of my unhappy life I

should have bent my knee and kissed the hem of her garment, wetting it
with tears, and then I might have flung myself into the Indre. But

having breathed the jasmine perfume of her skin and drunk the milk of
that cup of love, my soul had acquired the knowledge and the hope of

human joys; I would live and await the coming of happiness as the
savage awaits his hour of vengeance; I longed to climb those trees, to

creep among the vines, to float in the river; I wanted the
companionship of night and its silence, I needed lassitude of body, I

craved the heat of the sun to make the eating of the delicious apple
into which I had bitten perfect. Had she asked of me the singing

flower, the riches buried by the comrades of Morgan the destroyer, I
would have sought them, to obtain those other riches and that mute

flower for which I longed.
When my dream, the dream into which this first contemplation of my

idol plunged me, came to an end and I heard her speaking of Monsieur
de Mortsauf, the thought came that a woman must belong to her husband,

and a raging curiosity possessed me to see the owner of this treasure.
Two emotions filled my mind, hatred and fear,--hatred which allowed of

no obstacles and measured all without shrinking, and a vague, but real
fear of the struggle, of its issue, and above all of HER.

"Here is Monsieur de Mortsauf," she said.
I sprang to my feet like a startled horse. Though the movement was

seen by Monsieur de Chessel and the countess, neither made any
observation, for a diversion was effected at this moment by the

entrance of a little girl, whom I took to be about six years old, who
came in exclaiming, "Here's papa!"

"Madeleine?" said her mother, gently.
The child at once held out her hand to Monsieur de Chessel, and looked

attentively at me after making a little bow with an air of
astonishment.

"Are you more satisfied about her health?" asked Monsieur de Chessel.
"She is better," replied the countess, caressing the little head which

was already nestling in her lap.
The next question of Monsieur de Chessel let me know that Madeleine

was nine years old; I showed great surprise, and immediately the
clouds gathered on the mother's brow. My companion threw me a

significant look,--one of those which form the education of men of the
world. I had stumbled no doubt upon some maternal wound the covering

of which should have been respected. The sickly child, whose eyes were
pallid and whose skin was white as a porcelain vase with a light

within it, would probably not have lived in the atmosphere of a city.
Country air and her mother's brooding care had kept the life in that

frail body, delicate as a hot-house plant growing in a harsh and
foreign climate. Though in nothing did she remind me of her mother,

Madeleine seemed to have her soul, and that soul held her up. Her hair
was scanty and black, her eyes and cheeks hollow, her arms thin, her

chest narrow, showing a battle between life and death, a duel without
truce in which the mother had so far been victorious. The child willed

to live,--perhaps to spare her mother, for at times, when not
observed, she fell into the attitude of a weeping-willow. You might

have thought her a little gypsy dying of hunger, begging her way,
exhausted but always brave and dressed up to play her part.

"Where have you left Jacques?" asked the countess, kissing the white
line which parted the child's hair into two bands that looked like a

crow's wings.
"He is coming with papa."

Just then the count entered, holding his son by the hand. Jacques, the
image of his sister, showed the same signs of weakness. Seeing these

sickly children beside a mother so magnificently healthy it was
impossible not to guess at the causes of the grief which clouded her

brow and kept her silent on a subject she could take to God only. As
he bowed, Monsieur de Mortsauf gave me a glance that was less

observing than awkwardly uneasy,--the glance of a man whose distrust
grows out of his inability to analyze. After explaining the

circumstances of our visit, and naming me to him, the countess gave
him her place and left the room. The children, whose eyes were on

those of their mother as if they drew the light of theirs from hers,
tried to follow her; but she said, with a finger on her lips, "Stay

dears!" and they obeyed, but their eyes filled. Ah! to hear that one
word "dears" what tasks they would have undertaken!

Like the children, I felt less warm when she had left us. My name
seemed to change the count's feeling toward me. Cold and supercilious

in his first glance, he became at once, if not affectionate, at least
politely attentive, showing me every consideration and seeming pleased

to receive me as a guest. My father had formerly done devoted service
to the Bourbons, and had played an important and perilous, though

secret part. When their cause was lost by the elevation of Napoleon,
he took refuge in the quietude of the country and domestic life,

accepting the unmerited accusations that followed him as the
inevitable reward of those who risk all to win all, and who succumb

after serving as pivot to the political machine. Knowing nothing of
the fortunes, nor of the past, nor of the future of my family, I was

unaware of this devoted service which the Comte de Mortsauf well
remembered. Moreover, the antiquity of our name, the most precious

quality of a man in his eyes, added to the warmth of his greeting. I
knew nothing of these reasons until later; for the time being the

sudden transition to cordiality put me at my ease. When the two
children saw that we were all three fairly engaged in conversation,

Madeleine slipped her head from her father's hand, glanced at the open
door, and glided away like an eel, Jacques following her. They

rejoined their mother, and I heard their voices and their movements,
sounding in the distance like the murmur of bees about a hive.

I watched the count, trying to guess his character, but I became so
interested in certain leading traits that I got no further than a

superficial examination of his personality. Though he was only forty-
five years old, he seemed nearer sixty, so much had the great

shipwreck at the close of the eighteenth century aged him. The
crescent of hair which monastically fringed the back of his head,

otherwise completely bald, ended at the ears in little tufts of gray
mingled with black. His face bore a vague resemblance to that of a

white wolf with blood about its muzzle, for his nose was inflamed and
gave signs of a life poisoned at its springs and vitiated by diseases

of long standing. His flat forehead, too broad for the face beneath
it, which ended in a point, and transversely wrinkled in crooked

lines, gave signs of a life in the open air, but not of any mental
activity; it also showed the burden of constant misfortunes, but not

of any efforts made to surmount them. His cheekbones, which were brown