tearful eyes, complaining that she had not slept.
"What troubles you?" I said.

"I fear that my excessive love will ruin me," she answered; "I have
given all. Wiser than I, that woman possesses something that you still

desire. If you prefer her, forget me; I will not trouble you with my
sorrows, my remorse, my sufferings; no, I will go far away and die,

like a plant deprived of the life-giving sun."
She was able to wring protestations of love from my reluctant lips,

which filled her with joy.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, drying her eyes, "I am happy. Go back to her; I

do not choose to owe you to the force of my love, but to the action of
your own will. If you return here I shall know that you love me as

much as I love you, the possibility of which I have always doubted."
She persuaded me to return to Clochegourde. The false position in

which I thus placed myself did not strike me while still under the
influence of her wiles. Yet, had I refused to return I should have

given Lady Dudley a triumph over Henriette. Arabella would then have
taken me to Paris. To go now to Clochegourde was an open insult to

Madame de Mortsauf; in that case Arabella was sure of me. Did any
woman ever pardon such crimes against love? Unless she were an angel

descended from the skies, instead of a purified spirit ascending to
them, a loving woman would rather see her lover die than know him

happy with another. Thus, look at it as I would, my situation, after I
had once left Clochegourde for the Grenadiere, was as fatal to the

love of my choice as it was profitable to the transient love that held
me. Lady Dudley had calculated all this with consummate cleverness.

She owned to me later that if she had not met Madame de Mortsauf on
the moor she had intended to compromise me by haunting Clochegourde

until she did so.
When I met the countess that morning, and found her pale and depressed

like one who has not slept all night, I was conscious of exercising
the instinctiveperception given to hearts still fresh and generous to

show them the true bearing of actions little regarded by the world at
large, but judged as criminal by lofty spirits. Like a child going

down a precipice in play and gathering flowers, who sees with dread
that it can never climb that height again, feels itself alone, with

night approaching, and hears the howls of animals, so I now knew that
she and I were separated by a universe. A wail arose within our souls

like an echo of that woeful "Consummatum est" heard in the churches on
Good Friday at the hour the Saviour died,--a dreadful scene which awes

young souls whose first love is religion. All Henriette's illusions
were killed at one blow; her heart had endured its passion. She did

not look at me; she refused me the light that for six long years had
shone upon my life. She knew well that the spring of the effulgent

rays shed by our eyes was in our souls, to which they served as
pathways to reach each other, to blend them in one, meeting, parting,

playing, like two confiding women who tell each other all. Bitterly I
felt the wrong of bringing beneath this roof, where pleasure was

unknown, a face on which the wings of pleasure had shaken their
prismatic dust. If, the night before, I had allowed Lady Dudley to

depart alone, if I had then returned to Clochegourde, where, it may
be, Henriette awaited me, perhaps--perhaps Madame de Mortsauf might

not so cruelly have resolved to be my sister. But now she paid me many
ostentatious attentions,--playing her part vehemently for the very

purpose of not changing it. During breakfast she showed me a thousand
civilities, humiliating attentions, caring for me as though I were a

sick man whose fate she pitied.
"You were out walking early," said the count; "I hope you have brought

back a good appetite, you whose stomach is not yet destroyed."
This remark, which brought the smile of a sister to Henriette's lips,

completed my sense of the ridicule of my position. It was impossible
to be at Clochegourde by day and Saint-Cyr by night. During the day I

felt how difficult it was to become the friend of a woman we have long
loved. The transition, easy enough when years have brought it about,

is like an illness in youth. I was ashamed; I cursed the pleasure Lady
Dudley gave me; I wished that Henriette would demand my blood. I could

not tear her rival in pieces before her, for she avoided speaking of
her; indeed, had I spoken of Arabella, Henriette, noble and sublime to

the inmost recesses of her heart, would have despised my infamy. After
five years of delightfulintercourse we now had nothing to say to each

other; our words had no connection with our thoughts; we were hiding
from each other our intolerable pain,--we, whose mutualsufferings had

been our first interpreter.
Henriette assumed a cheerful look for me as for herself, but she was

sad. She spoke of herself as my sister, and yet found no ground on
which to converse; and we remained for the greater part of the time in

constrained silence. She increased my inwardmisery by feigning to
believe that she was the only victim.

"I suffer more than you," I said to her at a moment when my self-
styled sister was betrayed into a feminine sarcasm.

"How so?" she said haughtily.
"Because I am the one to blame."

At last her manner became so cold and indifferent that I resolved to
leave Clochegourde. That evening, on the terrace, I said farewell to

the whole family, who were there assembled. They all followed me to
the lawn where my horse was waiting. The countess came to me as I took

the bridle in my hand.
"Let us walk down the avenue together, alone," she said.

I gave her my arm, and we passed through the courtyard with slow and
measured steps, as though our rhythmic movement were consoling to us.

When we reached the grove of trees which forms a corner of the
boundary she stopped.

"Farewell, my friend," she said, throwing her head upon my breast and
her arms around my neck, "Farewell, we shall never meet again. God has

given me the sad power to look into the future. Do you remember the
terror that seized me the day you first came back, so young, so

handsome! and I saw you turn your back on me as you do this day when
you are leaving Clochegourde and going to Saint-Cyr? Well, once again,

during the past night I have seen into the future. Friend, we are
speaking together for the last time. I can hardly now say a few words

to you, for it is but a part of me that speaks at all. Death has
already seized on something in me. You have taken the mother from her

children, I now ask you to take her place to them. You can; Jacques
and Madeleine love you--as if you had always made them suffer."

"Death!" I cried, frightened as I looked at her and beheld the fire of
her shining eyes, of which I can give no idea to those who have never

known their dear ones struck down by her fatal malady, unless I
compare those eyes to balls of burnished silver. "Die!" I said.

"Henriette, I command you to live. You used to ask an oath of me, I
now ask one of you. Swear to me that you will send for Origet and obey

him in everything."
"Would you oppose the mercy of God?" she said, interrupting me with a

cry of despair at being thus misunderstood.
"You do not love me enough to obey me blindly, as that miserable Lady

Dudley does?"
"Yes, yes, I will do all you ask," she cried, goaded by jealousy.

"Then I stay," I said, kissing her on the eyelids.
Frightened at the words, she escaped from my arms and leaned against a

tree; then she turned and walked rapidly homeward without looking
back. But I followed her; she was weeping and praying. When we reached

the lawn I took her hand and kissed it respectfully. This submission
touched her.

"I am yours--forever, and as you will," I said; "for I love you as
your aunt loved you."

She trembled and wrung my hand.
"One look," I said, "one more, one last of our old looks! The woman

who gives herself wholly," I cried, my soul illumined by the glance
she gave me, "gives less of life and soul than I have now received.

Henriette, thou art my best-beloved--my only love."
"I shall live!" she said; "but cure yourself as well."

That look had effaced the memory of Arabella's sarcasms. Thus I was
the plaything of the two irreconcilable passions I have now described

to you; I was influenced by each alternately. I loved an angel and a
demon; two women equally beautiful,--one adorned with all the virtues

which we decry through hatred of our own imperfections, the other with
all the vices which we deify through selfishness. Returning along that