continued, showing a letter that was on the mantelshelf. "He is now my

adopted son, and that is all. The heart, dear friend, makes its
bequests; my last wishes impose a sacred duty on that dear Felix. I

think I do not put too great a burden on him; grant that I do not ask
too much of you in desiring to leave him these last words. You see, I

am always a woman," she said, bending her head with mournful
sweetness; "after obtaining pardon I ask a gift--Read this," she

added, giving me the letter; "but not until after my death."
The count saw her color change: he lifted her and carried her himself

to the bed, where we all surrounded her.
"Felix," she said, "I may have done something wrong to you. Often I

gave you pain by letting you hope for that I could not give you; but
see, it was that very courage of wife and mother that now enables me

to die forgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiven of all. You will forgive me too; you who have so often
blamed me, and whose injustice was so dear--"

The Abbe Birotteau laid a finger on his lips. At that sign the dying
woman bowed her head, faintness overcame her; presently she waved her

hands as if summoning the clergy and her children and the servants to
her presence, and then, with an imploring gesture, she showed me the

desolate count and the children beside him. The sight of that father,
the secret of whose insanity was known to us alone, now to be left

sole guardian of those delicate beings, brought mute entreaties to her
face, which fell upon my heart like sacred fire. Before receiving

extreme unction she asked pardon of her servants if by a hasty word
she had sometimes hurt them; she asked their prayers and commended

each one, individually, to the count; she nobly confessed that during
the last two months she had uttered complaints that were not Christian

and might have shocked them; she had repulsed her children and clung
to life unworthily; but she attributed this failure of submission to

the will of God to her intolerable sufferings. Finally, she publicly
thanked the Abbe Birotteau with heartfelt warmth for having shown her

the illusion of all earthly things.
When she ceased to speak, prayers were said again, and the curate of

Sache gave her the viaticum. A few moments later her breathing became
difficult; a film overspread her eyes, but soon they cleared again;

she gave me a last look and died to the eyes of earth, hearing perhaps
the symphony of our sobs. As her last sigh issued from her lips,--the

effort of a life that was one long anguish,--I felt a blow within me
that struck on all my faculties. The count and I remained beside the

bier all night with the two abbes and the curate, watching, in the
glimmer of the tapers, the body of the departed, now so calm, laid

upon the mattress of her bed, where once she had suffered cruelly. It
was my first communion with death. I remained the whole of that night

with my eyes fixed on Henriette, spell-bound by the pure expression
that came from the stilling of all tempests, by the whiteness of that

face where still I saw the traces of her innumerableaffections,
although it made no answer to my love. What majesty in that silence,

in that coldness! How many thoughts they expressed! What beauty in
that cold repose, what power in that immobility! All the past was

there and futurity had begun. Ah! I loved her dead as much as I had
loved her living. In the morning the count went to bed; the three

wearied priests fell asleep in that heavy hour of dawn so well known
to those who watch. I could then, without witnesses, kiss that sacred

brow with all the love I had never been allowed to utter.
The third day, in a cool autumn morning, we followed the countess to

her last home. She was carried by the old huntsman, the two
Martineaus, and Manette's husband. We went down by the road I had so

joyously ascended the day I first returned to her. We crossed the
valley of the Indre to the little cemetery of Sache--a poor village

graveyard, placed behind the church on the slope of the hill, where
with true humility she had asked to be buried beneath a simple cross

of black wood, "like a poor country-woman," she said. When I saw, from
the centre of the valley, the village church and the place of the

graveyard a convulsive shudder seized me. Alas! we have all our
Golgothas, where we leave the first thirty-three years of our lives,

with the lance-wound in our side, the crown of thorns and not of roses
on our brow--that hill-slope was to me the mount of expiation.

We were followed by an immense crowd, seeking to express the grief of
the valley where she had silently buried so many noble actions.

Manette, her faithful woman, told me that when her savings did not
suffice to help the poor she economized upon her dress. There were

babes to be provided for, naked children to be clothed, mothers
succored in their need, sacks of flour brought to the millers in

winter for helpless old men, a cow sent to some poor home,--deeds of a
Christian woman, a mother, and the lady of the manor. Besides these

things, there were dowries paid to enableloving hearts to marry;
substitutes bought for youths to whom the draft had brought despair,

tender offerings of the loving woman who had said: "The happiness of
others is the consolation of those who cannot themselves be happy."

Such things, related at the "veillees," made the crowd immense. I
walked with Jacques and the two abbes behind the coffin. According to

custom neither the count nor Madeleine were present; they remained
alone at Clochegourde. But Manette insisted in coming with us. "Poor

madame! poor madame! she is happy now," I heard her saying to herself
amid her sobs.

As the procession left the road to the mills I heard a simultaneous
moan and a sound of weeping as though the valley were lamenting for

its soul. The church was filled with people. After the service was
over we went to the graveyard where she wished to be buried near the

cross. When I heard the pebbles and the gravel falling upon the coffin
my courage gave way; I staggered and asked the two Martineaus to

steady me. They took me, half-dead, to the chateau of Sache, where the
owners very kindly invited me to stay, and I accepted. I will own to

you that I dreaded a return to Clochegourde, and it was equally
repugnant to me to go to Frapesle, where I could see my Henriette's

windows. Here, at Sache, I was near her. I lived for some days in a
room which looked on the tranquil, solitaryvalley I have mentioned to

you. It is a deep recess among the hills, bordered by oaks that are
doubly centenarian, through which a torrent rushes after rain. The

scene was in keeping with the stern and solemn meditations to which I
desired to abandon myself.

I had perceived, during the day which followed the fatal night, how
unwelcome my presence might be at Clochegourde. The count had gone

through violentmotion" target="_blank" title="n.感情；情绪；激动">emotions at the death of his wife; but he had expected
the event; his mind was made up to it in a way that was something like

indifference. I had noticed this several times, and when the countess
gave me that letter (which I still dared not read) and when she spoke

of her affection for me, I remarked that the count, usually so quick
to take offence, made no sign of feeling any. He attributed

Henriette's wording to the extreme sensitiveness of a conscience which
he knew to be pure. This selfish insensibility was natural to him. The

souls of these two beings were no more married than their bodies; they
had never had the intimatecommunion which keeps feeling alive; they

had shared neither pains nor pleasures, those strong links which tear
us by a thousand edges when broken, because they touch on all our

fibers, and are fastened to the inmost recesses of our hearts.
Another considerationforbade my return to Clochegourde,--Madeleine's

hostility. That hard young girl was not disposed to modify her hatred
beside her mother's coffin. Between the count, who would have talked

to me incessantly of himself, and the new mistress of the house, who
would have shown me invincible dislike, I should have found myself

horribly annoyed. To be treated thus where once the very flowers
welcomed me, where the steps of the portico had a voice, where my

memory clothed with poetry the balconies, the fountains, the
balustrades, the trees, the glimpses of the valleys! to be hated where

I once was loved--the thought was intolerable to me. So, from the
first, my mind was made up.

Alas! alas! was this the end of the keenest love that ever entered the
heart of man? To the eyes of strangers my conduct might be

reprehensible, but it had the sanction of my own conscience. It is
thus that the noblest feelings, the sublimest dramas of our youth must

end. We start at dawn, as I from Tours to Clochegourde, we clutch the
world, our hearts hungry for love; then, when our treasure is in the

crucible, when we mingle with men and circumstances, all becomes
gradually debased and we find but little gold among the ashes. Such is