“It is a long time since I have driven out,” she said, looking at the beauty of the evening.  “Monsieur, will you please order the carriage that I may take a turn?”

She knew that after evening prayer she could not speak with me, for the count was sure to want his backgammon.  She might have returned to the warm and fragrant terrace after her husband had gone to bed, but she feared, perhaps, to trust herself beneath those shadows, or to walk by the balustrade where our eyes could see the course of the Indre through the dear valley.  As the silent and sombre vaults of a cathedral lift the soul to prayer, so leafy ways, lighted by the moon, perfumed with penetrating odors, alive with the murmuring noises of the spring-tide, stir the fibres and weaken the resolves of those who love.  The country calms the old, but excites the young.  We knew it well.  Two strokes of the bell announced the hour of prayer.  The countess shivered.

“Dear Henriette, are you ill?”

“There is no Henriette,” she said.  “Do not bring her back.  She was capricious and exacting; now you have a friend whose courage has been strengthened by the words which heaven itself dictated to you.  We will talk of this later.  We must be punctual at prayers, for it is my day to lead them.”

As Madame de Mortsauf said the words in which she begged the help of God through all the adversities of life, a tone came into her voice which struck all present.  Did she use her gift of second sight to foresee the terrible emotion she was about to endure through my forgetfulness of an engagement made with Arabella?

“We have time to make three kings before the horses are harnessed,” said the count, dragging me back to the salon.  “You can go and drive with my wife, and I’ll go to bed.”

The game was stormy, like all others.  The countess heard the count’s voice either from her room or from Madeleine’s.

“You show a strange hospitality,” she said, re-entering the salon.

I looked at her with amazement; I could not get accustomed to the change in her; formerly she would have been most careful not to protect me against the count; then it gladdened her that I should share her sufferings and bear them with patience for love of her.

“I would give my life,” I whispered in her ear, “if I could hear you say again, as you once said, ‘Poor dear, poor dear!’”

She lowered her eyes, remembering the moment to which I alluded, yet her glance turned to me beneath her eyelids, expressing the joy of a woman who finds the mere passing tones from her heart preferred to the delights of another love.  The count was losing the game; he said he was tired, as an excuse to give it up, and we went to walk on the lawn while waiting for the carriage.  When the count left us, such pleasure shone on my face that Madame de Mortsauf questioned me by a look of surprise and curiosity.

“Henriette does exist,” I said.  “You love me still.  You wound me with an evident intention to break my heart.  I may yet be happy!”