of the grave where life so lately sparkled!  Such comparisons are overwhelming.  I came at last to envy the dismal ignorance of all happiness which had darkened my youth.  My despair became so great that the countess, I thought, felt pity for it.  One day after dinner as we were walking on the meadows beside the river I made a last effort to obtain forgiveness.  I told Jacques to go on with his sister, and leaving the count to walk alone, I took Henriette to the punt.

“Henriette,” I said; “one word of forgiveness, or I fling myself into the Indre!  I have sinned,—­yes, it is true; but am I not like a dog in his faithful attachments?  I return like him, like him ashamed.  If he does wrong he is struck, but he loves the hand that strikes him; strike me, bruise me, but give me back your heart.”

“Poor child,” she said, “are you not always my son?”

She took my arm and silently rejoined her children, with whom she returned to Clochegourde, leaving me to the count, who began to talk politics apropos of his neighbors.

“Let us go in,” I said; “you are bare-headed, and the dew may do you an injury.”

“You pity me, my dear Felix,” he answered; “you understand me, but my wife never tries to comfort me,—­on principle, perhaps.”

Never would she have left me to walk home with her husband; it was now I who had to find excuses to join her.  I found her with her children, explaining the rules of backgammon to Jacques.

“See there,” said the count, who was always jealous of the affection she showed for her children; “it is for them that I am neglected.  Husbands, my dear Felix, are always suppressed.  The most virtuous woman in the world has ways of satisfying her desire to rob conjugal affection.”

She said nothing and continued as before.

“Jacques,” he said, “come here.”

Jacques objected slightly.

“Your father wants you; go at once, my son,” said his mother, pushing him.

“They love me by order,” said the old man, who sometimes perceived his situation.

“Monsieur,” she answered, passing her hand over Madeleine’s smooth tresses, which were dressed that day “a la belle Ferronniere”; “do not be unjust to us poor women; life is not so easy for us to bear.  Perhaps the children are the virtues of a mother.”

“My dear,” said the count, who took it into his head to be logical, “what you say signifies that women who have no children would have no virtue, and would leave their husbands in the lurch.”

The countess rose hastily and took Madeleine to the portico.

“That’s marriage, my dear fellow,” remarked the count to me.  “Do you mean to imply by going off in that manner that I am talking nonsense?” he cried to his wife, taking his son by the hand and going to the portico after her with a furious look in his eyes.

“On the contrary, Monsieur, you frightened me.  Your words hurt me cruelly,” she added, in a hollow voice.  “If virtue does not consist in sacrificing everything to our children and our husband, what is virtue?”