her glance turned to me beneath her eyelids, expressing the joy of a
woman who finds the mere passing tones from her heart preferred to the

delights of another love. The count was losing the game; he said he
was tired, as an excuse to give it up, and we went to walk on the lawn

while waiting for the carriage. When the count left us, such pleasure
shone on my face that Madame de Mortsauf questioned me by a look of

surprise and curiosity.
"Henriette does exist," I said. "You love me still. You wound me with

an evidentintention to break my heart. I may yet be happy!"
"There was but a fragment of that poor woman left, and you have now

destroyed even that," she said. "God be praised; he gives me strength
to bear my righteousmartyrdom. Yes, I still love you, and I might

have erred; the English woman shows me the abyss."
We got into the carriage and the coachman asked for orders.

"Take the road to Chinon by the avenue, and come back by the
Charlemagne moor and the road to Sache."

"What day is it?" I asked, with too much eagerness.
"Saturday."

"Then don't go that way, madame, the road will be crowded with
poultry-men and their carts returning from Tours."

"Do as I told you," she said to the coachman. We knew the tones of our
voices too well to be able to hide from each other our least emotion.

Henriette understood all.
"You did not think of the poultry-men when you appointed this

evening," she said with a tinge of irony. "Lady Dudley is at Tours,
and she is coming here to meet you; do not deny it. 'What day is

it?--the poultry-men--their carts!' Did you ever take notice of such
things in our old drives?"

"It only shows that at Clochegourde I forget everything," I answered,
simply.

"She is coming to meet you?"
"Yes."

"At what hour?"
"Half-past eleven."

"Where?"
"On the moor."

"Do not deceive me; is it not at the walnut-tree?"
"On the moor."

"We will go there," she said, "and I shall see her."
When I heard these words I regarded my future life as settled. I at

once resolved to marry Lady Dudley and put an end to the miserable
struggle which threatened to exhaust my sensibilities and destroy by

these repeated shocks the delicate delights which had hitherto
resembled the flower of fruits. My sullen silence wounded the

countess, the grandeur of whose mind I misjudged.
"Do not be angry with me," she said, in her golden voice. "This, dear,

is my punishment. You can never be loved as you are here," she
continued, laying my hand upon her heart. "I now confess it; but Lady

Dudley has saved me. To her the stains,--I do not envy them,--to me
the glorious love of angels! I have traversed vast tracts of thought

since you returned here. I have judged life. Lift up the soul and you
rend it; the higher we go the less sympathy we meet; instead of

suffering in the valley, we suffer in the skies, as the soaring eagle
bears in his heart the arrow of some common herdsman. I comprehend at

last that earth and heaven are incompatible. Yes, to those who would
live in the celestialsphere God must be all in all. We must love our

friends as we love our children,--for them, not for ourselves. Self is
the cause of misery and grief. My soul is capable of soaring higher

than the eagle; there is a love which cannot fail me. But to live for
this earthly life is too debasing,--here the selfishness of the senses

reigns supreme over the spirituality of the angel that is within us.
The pleasures of passion are stormy, followed by enervating anxieties

which impair the vigor of the soul. I came to the shores of the sea
where such tempests rage; I have seen them too near; they have wrapped

me in their clouds; the billows did not break at my feet, they caught
me in a rough embrace which chilled my heart. No! I must escape to

higher regions; I should perish on the shores of this vast sea. I see
in you, as in all others who have grieved me, the guardian of my

virtue. My life has been mingled with anguish, fortunately
proportioned to my strength; it has thus been kept free from evil

passions, from seductive peace, and ever near to God. Our attachment
was the mistaken attempt, the innocent effort of two children striving

to satisfy their own hearts, God, and men--folly, Felix! Ah," she said
quickly, "what does that woman call you?"

"'Amedee,'" I answered, "'Felix' is a being apart, who belongs to none
but you."

"'Henriette' is slow to die," she said, with a gentle smile, "but die
she will at the first effort of the humble Christian, the self-

respecting mother; she whose virtue tottered yesterday and is firm
to-day. What may I say to you? This. My life has been, and is,

consistent with itself in all its circumstances, great and small. The
heart to which the rootlets of my first affection should have clung,

my mother's heart, was closed to me, in spite of my persistence in
seeking a cleft through which they might have slipped. I was a girl; I

came after the death of three boys; and I vainlystrove to take their
place in the hearts of my parents; the wound I gave to the family

pride was never healed. When my gloomychildhood was over and I knew
my aunt, death took her from me all too soon. Monsieur de Mortsauf, to

whom I vowed myself, has repeatedly, nay without respite, smitten me,
not being himself aware of it, poor man! His love has the simple-

minded egotism our children show to us. He has no conception of the
harm he does me, and he is heartilyforgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiven for it. My children,

those dear children who are bound to my flesh through their
sufferings, to my soul by their characters, to my nature by their

innocent happiness,--those children were surely given to show me how
much strength and patience a mother's breast contains. Yes, my

children are my virtues. You know how my heart has been harrowed for
them, by them, in spite of them. To be a mother was, for me, to buy

the right to suffer. When Hagar cried in the desert an angel came and
opened a spring of living water for that poor slave; but I, when the

limpid stream to which (do you remember?) you tried to guide me flowed
past Clochegourde, its waters changed to bitterness for me. Yes, the

sufferings you have inflicted on my soul are terrible. God, no doubt,
will pardon those who know affection only through its pains. But if

the keenest of these pains has come to me through you, perhaps I
deserved them. God is not unjust. Ah, yes, Felix, a kiss furtively

taken may be a crime. Perhaps it is just that a woman should harshly
expiate the few steps taken apart from husband and children that she

might walk alone with thoughts and memories that were not of them, and
so walking, marry her soul to another. Perhaps it is the worst of

crimes when the inward being lowers itself to the region of human
kisses. When a woman bends to receive her husband's kiss with a mask

upon her face, that is a crime! It is a crime to think of a future
springing from a death, a crime to imagine a motherhood without

terrors, handsome children playing in the evening with a beloved
father before the eyes of a happy mother. Yes, I sinned, sinned

greatly. I have loved the penances inflicted by the Church,--which did
not redeem the faults, for the priest was too indulgent. God has

placed the punishment in the faults themselves, committing the
execution of his vengeance to the one for whom the faults were

committed. When I gave my hair, did I not give myself? Why did I so
often dress in white? because I seemed the more your lily; did you not

see me here, for the first time, all in white? Alas! I have loved my
children less, for all intenseaffection is stolen from the natural

affections. Felix, do you not see that all suffering has its meaning.
Strike me, wound me even more than Monsieur de Mortsauf and my

children's state have wounded me. That woman is the instrument of
God's anger; I will meet her without hatred; I will smile upon her;

under pain of being neither Christian, wife, nor mother, I ought to
love her. If, as you tell me, I contributed to keep your heart

unsoiled by the world, that Englishwoman ought not to hate me. A woman
should love the mother of the man she loves, and I am your mother.

What place have I sought in your heart? that left empty by Madame de
Vandenesse. Yes, yes, you have always complained of my coldness; yes,