occupied, he will always find time to be devoted to you.  I have placed the liquidation of my affairs and the payment of the debts in his hands.  If he should advance some sum of which he should later feel in need I rely on you to pay it back.  Remember, however, that I do not leave you to de Marsay, but to yourself; I do not seek to impose him upon you.

Alas!  I have but an hour more to stay beside you; I cannot spend that hour in writing business—­I count your breaths; I try to guess your thoughts in the slight motions of your sleep.  I would I could infuse my blood into your veins that you might be a part of me, my thought your thought, and your heart mine—­A murmur has just escaped your lips as though it were a soft reply.  Be calm and beautiful forever as you are now!  Ah! would that I possessed that fabulous fairy power which, with a wand, could make you sleep while I am absent, until, returning, I should wake you with a kiss.

How much I must love you, how much energy of soul I must possess, to leave you as I see you now!  Adieu, my cherished one.  Your poor Pink of Fashion is blown away by stormy winds, but—­the wings of his good luck shall waft him back to you.  No, my Ninie, I am not bidding you farewell, for I shall never leave you.  Are you not the soul of my actions?  Is not the hope of returning with happiness indestructible for you the end and aim of my endeavor?  Does it not lead my every step?  You will be with me everywhere.  Ah! it will not be the sun of India, but the fire of your eyes that lights my way.  Therefore be happy—­as happy as a woman can be without her lover.  I would the last kiss that I take from those dear lips were not a passive one; but, my Ninie, my adored one, I will not wake you.  When you wake, you will find a tear upon your forehead—­make it a talisman!  Think, think of him who may, perhaps, die for you, far from you; think less of the husband than of the lover who confides you to God.

  From the Comtesse de Manerville to her husband: 

Dear, beloved one,—­Your letter has plunged me into affliction.  Had you the right to take this course, which must affect us equally, without consulting me?  Are you free?  Do you not belong to me?  If you must go, why should I not follow you?  You show me, Paul, that I am not indispensable to you.  What have I done, to be deprived of my rights?  Surely I count for something in this ruin.  My luxuries have weighed somewhat in the scale.  You make me curse the happy, careless life we have led for the last five years.  To know that you are banished from France for years is enough to kill me.  How soon can a fortune be made in India?  Will you ever return?

I was right when I refused, with instinctive obstinacy, that separation as to property which my mother and you were so determined to carry out.  What did I tell you then?  Did I not warn you that it was casting a reflection upon you, and would