The words, said in the midst of her agitation, showed plainly the purity of her soul.  The death of the count a misfortune!  She reached Clochegourde with great rapidity, passing through a gap in the wall and crossing the fields.  I returned slowly.  Henriette’s words lighted my mind, but as the lightning falls and blasts the gathered harvest.  On the river I had fancied I was her chosen one; now I felt bitterly the sincerity of her words.  The lover who is not everything is nothing.  I loved with the desire of a love that knows what it seeks; which feeds in advance on coming transports, and is content with the pleasures of the soul because it mingles with them others which the future keeps in store.  If Henriette loved, it was certain that she knew neither the pleasures of love nor its tumults.  She lived by feelings only, like a saint with God.  I was the object on which her thoughts fastened as bees swarm upon the branch of a flowering tree.  In my mad jealousy I reproached myself that I had dared nothing, that I had not tightened the bonds of a tenderness which seemed to me at that moment more subtile than real, by the chains of positive possession.

The count’s illness, caused perhaps by a chill under the walnut-tree, became alarming in a few hours.  I went to Tours for a famous doctor named Origet, but was unable to find him until evening.  He spent that night and the next day at Clochegourde.  We had sent the huntsman in quest of leeches, but the doctor, thinking the case urgent, wished to bleed the count immediately, but had brought no lancet with him.  I at once started for Azay in the midst of a storm, roused a surgeon, Monsieur Deslandes, and compelled him to come with the utmost celerity to Clochegourde.  Ten minutes later and the count would have died; the bleeding saved him.  But in spite of this preliminary success the doctor predicted an inflammatory fever of the worst kind.  The countess was overcome by the fear that she was the secret cause of this crisis.  Two weak to thank me for my exertions, she merely gave me a few smiles, the equivalent of the kiss she had once laid upon my hand.  Fain would I have seen in those haggard smiles the remorse of illicit love; but no, they were only the act of contrition of an innocent repentance, painful to see in one so pure, the expression of admiring tenderness for me whom she regarded as noble while reproaching herself for an imaginary wrong.  Surely she loved as Laura loved Petrarch, and not as Francesca da Rimini loved Paolo,—­a terrible discovery for him who had dreamed the union of the two loves.

The countess half lay, her body bent forwards, her arms hanging, in a soiled armchair in a room that was like the lair of a wild boar.  The next evening before the doctor departed he said to the countess, who had sat up the night before, that she must get a nurse, as the illness would be a long one.

“A nurse!” she said; “no, no!  We will take care of him,” she added, looking at me; “we owe it to ourselves to save him.”