“There was but a fragment of that poor woman left, and you have now destroyed even that,” she said.  “God be praised; he gives me strength to bear my righteous martyrdom.  Yes, I still love you, and I might have erred; the English woman shows me the abyss.”

We got into the carriage and the coachman asked for orders.

“Take the road to Chinon by the avenue, and come back by the Charlemagne moor and the road to Sache.”

“What day is it?” I asked, with too much eagerness.

“Saturday.”

“Then don’t go that way, madame, the road will be crowded with poultry-men and their carts returning from Tours.”

“Do as I told you,” she said to the coachman.  We knew the tones of our voices too well to be able to hide from each other our least emotion.  Henriette understood all.

“You did not think of the poultry-men when you appointed this evening,” she said with a tinge of irony.  “Lady Dudley is at Tours, and she is coming here to meet you; do not deny it.  ’What day is it?—­the poultry-men—­their carts!’ Did you ever take notice of such things in our old drives?”

“It only shows that at Clochegourde I forget everything,” I answered, simply.

“She is coming to meet you?”

“Yes.”

“At what hour?”

“Half-past eleven.”

“Where?”

“On the moor.”

“Do not deceive me; is it not at the walnut-tree?”

“On the moor.”

“We will go there,” she said, “and I shall see her.”

When I heard these words I regarded my future life as settled.  I at once resolved to marry Lady Dudley and put an end to the miserable struggle which threatened to exhaust my sensibilities and destroy by these repeated shocks the delicate delights which had hitherto resembled the flower of fruits.  My sullen silence wounded the countess, the grandeur of whose mind I misjudged.

“Do not be angry with me,” she said, in her golden voice.  “This, dear, is my punishment.  You can never be loved as you are here,” she continued, laying my hand upon her heart.  “I now confess it; but Lady Dudley has saved me.  To her the stains,—­I do not envy them,—­to me the glorious love of angels!  I have traversed vast tracts of thought since you returned here.  I have judged life.  Lift up the soul and you rend it; the higher we go the less sympathy we meet; instead of suffering in the valley, we suffer in the skies, as the soaring eagle bears in his heart the arrow of some common herdsman.  I comprehend at last that earth and heaven are incompatible.  Yes, to those who would live in the celestial sphere God must be all in all.  We must love our friends as we love our children,—­for them, not for ourselves.  Self is the cause of misery and grief.  My soul is capable of soaring higher than the eagle; there is a love which cannot fail me.  But to live for this earthly life is too debasing,—­here the selfishness of the senses reigns supreme over