The countess returned in half an hour, and brought her frame near the table.

“This is for you,” she said, unrolling the canvas; “but for the last three months it has languished.  Between that rose and this heartsease my poor child was ill.”

“Come, come,” said Monsieur de Mortsauf, “don’t talk of that any more.  Six—­five, emissary of the king!”

When alone in my room I hushed my breathing that I might hear her passing to and fro in hers.  She was calm and pure, but I was lashed with maddening ideas.  “Why should she not be mine?” I thought; “perhaps she is, like me, in this whirlwind of agitation.”  At one o’clock, I went down, walking noiselessly, and lay before her door.  With my ear pressed to a chink I could hear her equable, gentle breathing, like that of a child.  When chilled to the bone I went back to bed and slept tranquilly till morning.  I know not what prenatal influence, what nature within me, causes the delight I take in going to the brink of precipices, sounding the gulf of evil, seeking to know its depths, feeling its icy chill, and retreating in deep emotion.  That hour of night passed on the threshold of her door where I wept with rage,—­though she never knew that on the morrow her foot had trod upon my tears and kisses, on her virtue first destroyed and then respected, cursed and adored,—­that hour, foolish in the eyes of many, was nevertheless an inspiration of the same mysterious impulse which impels the soldier.  Many have told me they have played their lives upon it, flinging themselves before a battery to know if they could escape the shot, happy in thus galloping into the abyss of probabilities, and smoking like Jean Bart upon the gunpowder.

The next day I went to gather flowers and made two bouquets.  The count admired them, though generally nothing of the kind appealed to him.  The clever saying of Champcenetz, “He builds dungeons in Spain,” seemed to have been made for him.

I spent several days at Clochegourde, going but seldom to Frapesle, where, however, I dined three times.  The French army now occupied Tours.  Though my presence was health and strength to Madame de Mortsauf, she implored me to make my way to Chateauroux, and so round by Issoudun and Orleans to Paris with what haste I could.  I tried to resist; but she commanded me, saying that my guardian angel spoke.  I obeyed.  Our farewell was, this time, dim with tears; she feared the allurements of the life I was about to live.  Is it not a serious thing to enter the maelstrom of interests, passions, and pleasures which make Paris a dangerous ocean for chaste love and purity of conscience?  I promised to write to her every night, relating the events and thoughts of the day, even the most trivial.  When I gave the promise she laid her head on my shoulder and said:  “Leave nothing out; everything will interest me.”

She gave me letters for the duke and duchess, which I delivered the second day after my return.