Never for three years had I heard her voice so richly happy.  For the first time I heard those swallow cries, the infantile notes of which I told you.  I had brought Jacques a hunting outfit, and for Madeleine a work-box—­which her mother afterwards used.  The joy of the two children, delighted to show their presents to each other, seemed to annoy the count, always dissatisfied when attention was withdrawn from himself.  I made a sign to Madeleine and followed her father, who wanted to talk to me of his ailments.

“My poor Felix,” he said, “you see how happy and well they all are.  I am the shadow on the picture; all their ills are transferred to me, and I bless God that it is so.  Formerly I did not know what was the matter with me; now I know.  The orifice of my stomach is affected; I can digest nothing.”

“How do you come to be as wise as the professor of a medical school?” I asked, laughing.  “Is your doctor indiscreet enough to tell you such things?”

“God forbid I should consult a doctor,” he cried, showing the aversion most imaginary invalids feel for the medical profession.

I now listened to much crazy talk, in the course of which he made the most absurd confidences,—­complained of his wife, of the servants, of the children, of life, evidently pleased to repeat his daily speeches to a friend who, not having heard them daily, might be alarmed, and who at any rate was forced to listen out of politeness.  He must have been satisfied, for I paid him the utmost attention, trying to penetrate his inconceivable nature, and to guess what new tortures he had been inflicting on his wife, of which she had not written to me.  Henriette presently put an end to the monologue by appearing in the portico.  The count saw her, shook his head, and said to me:  “You listen to me, Felix; but here no one pities me.”

He went away, as if aware of the constraint he imposed on my intercourse with Henriette, or perhaps from a really chivalrous consideration for her, knowing he could give her pleasure by leaving us alone.  His character exhibited contradictions that were often inexplicable; he was jealous, like all weak beings, but his confidence in his wife’s sanctity was boundless.  It may have been the sufferings of his own self-esteem, wounded by the superiority of that lofty virtue, which made him so eager to oppose every wish of the poor woman, whom he braved as children brave their masters or their mothers.

Jacques was taking his lessons, and Madeleine was being dressed; I had therefore a whole hour to walk with the countess alone on the terrace.

“Dear angel!” I said, “the chains are heavier, the sands hotter, the thorns grow apace.”

“Hush!” she said, guessing the thoughts my conversation with the count had suggested.  “You are here, and all is forgotten!  I don’t suffer; I have never suffered.”

She made a few light steps as if to shake her dress and give to the breeze its ruches of snowy tulle, its floating sleeves and fresh ribbons, the laces of her pelerine, and the flowing curls of her coiffure a la Sevigne; I saw her for the first time a young girl,—­gay with her natural gaiety, ready to frolic like a child.  I knew then the meaning of tears of happiness; I knew the joy a man feels in bringing happiness to another.