“She is not in Tours,” continued the count.

“She is not divorced, and she can go back to England.  Her husband would be very glad if she would return to him,” I said, eagerly.

“Has she children?” asked Madame de Mortsauf, in a changed voice.

“Two sons,” I replied.

“Where are they?”

“In England, with their father.”

“Come, Felix,” interposed the count; “be frank; is she as handsome as they say?”

“How can you ask him such a question?” cried the countess.  “Is not the woman you love always the handsomest of women?”

“Yes, always,” I said, firmly, with a glance which she could not sustain.

“You are a happy fellow,” said the count; “yes, a very happy one.  Ha! in my young days, I should have gone mad over such a conquest—­”

“Hush!” said Madame de Mortsauf, reminding the count of Madeleine by a look.

“I am not a child,” he said.

When we left the table I followed the countess to the terrace.  When we were alone she exclaimed, “How is it possible that some women can sacrifice their children to a man?  Wealth, position, the world, I can conceive of; eternity? yes, possibly; but children! deprive one’s self of one’s children!”

“Yes, and such women would give even more if they had it; they sacrifice everything.”

The world was suddenly reversed before her, her ideas became confused.  The grandeur of that thought struck her; a suspicion entered her mind that sacrifice, immolation justified happiness; the echo of her own inward cry for love came back to her; she stood dumb in presence of her wasted life.  Yes, for a moment horrible doubts possessed her; then she rose, grand and saintly, her head erect.

“Love her well, Felix,” she said, with tears in her eyes; “she shall be my happy sister.  I will forgive her the harm she has done me if she gives you what you could not have here.  You are right; I have never told you that I loved you, and I never have loved you as the world loves.  But if she is a mother how can she love you so?”

“Dear saint,” I answered, “I must be less moved than I am now, before I can explain to you how it is that you soar victoriously above her.  She is a woman of earth, the daughter of decaying races; you are the child of heaven, an angel worthy of worship; you have my heart, she my flesh only.  She knows this and it fills her with despair; she would change parts with you even though the cruellest martyrdom were the price of the change.  But all is irremediable.  To you the soul, to you the thoughts, the love that is pure, to you youth and old age; to her the desires and joys of passing passion; to you remembrance forever, to her oblivion—­”

“Tell me, tell me that again, oh, my friend!” she turned to a bench and sat down, bursting into tears.  “If that be so, Felix, virtue, purity of life, a mother’s love, are not mistakes.  Oh, pour that balm upon my wounds!  Repeat the words which bear me back to heaven, where once I longed to rise with you.  Bless me by a look, by a sacred word, —­I forgive you for the sufferings you have caused me the last two months.”