“Henriette, there are mysteries in the life of men of which you know nothing.  I met you at an age when the feelings of the heart stifle the desires implanted in our nature; but many scenes, the memory of which will kindle my soul to the hour of death, must have told you that this age was drawing to a close, and it was your constant triumph still to prolong its mute delights.  A love without possession is maintained by the exasperation of desire; but there comes a moment when all is suffering within us—­for in this we have no resemblance to you.  We possess a power we cannot abdicate, or we cease to be men.  Deprived of the nourishment it needs, the heart feeds upon itself, feeling an exhaustion which is not death, but which precedes it.  Nature cannot long be silenced; some trifling accident awakens it to a violence that seems like madness.  No, I have not loved, but I have thirsted in the desert.”

“The desert!” she said bitterly, pointing to the valley.  “Ah!” she exclaimed, “how he reasons! what subtle distinctions!  Faithful hearts are not so learned.”

“Henriette,” I said, “do not quarrel with me for a chance expression.  No, my soul has not vacillated, but I have not been master of my senses.  That woman is not ignorant that you are the only one I ever loved.  She plays a secondary part in my life; she knows it and is resigned.  I have the right to leave her as men leave courtesans.”

“And then?”

“She tells me that she will kill herself,” I answered, thinking that this resolve would startle Henriette.  But when she heard it a disdainful smile, more expressive than the thoughts it conveyed, flickered on her lips.  “My dear conscience,” I continued, “if you would take into account my resistance and the seductions that led to my fall you would understand the fatal—­”

“Yes, fatal!” she cried.  “I believed in you too much.  I believed you capable of the virtue a priest practises.  All is over,” she continued, after a pause.  “I owe you much, my friend; you have extinguished in me the fires of earthly life.  The worst of the way is over; age is coming on.  I am ailing now, soon I may be ill; I can never be the brilliant fairy who showers you with favors.  Be faithful to Lady Dudley.  Madeleine, whom I was training to be yours, ah! who will have her now?  Poor Madeleine, poor Madeleine!” she repeated, like the mournful burden of a song.  “I would you had heard her say to me when you came:  ‘Mother, you are not kind to Felix!’ Dear creature!”

She looked at me in the warm rays of the setting sun as they glided through the foliage.  Seized with compassion for the shipwreck of our lives she turned back to memories of our pure past, yielding to meditations which were mutual.  We were silent, recalling past scenes; our eyes went from the valley to the fields, from the windows of Clochegourde to those of Frapesle, peopling the dream with my bouquets, the fragrant language of our desires.  It was her last hour of pleasure, enjoyed with the purity of her Catholic soul.  This scene, so grand to each of us, cast its melancholy on both.  She believed my words, and saw where I placed her—­in the skies.