Only, Felix, let me not love the brother I have chosen without return.  Love me, cherish me!  The love of a sister has no dangerous to-morrow, no hours of difficulty.  You will never find it necessary to deceive the indulgent heart which will live in future within your life, grieve for your griefs, be joyous with your joys, which will love the women who make you happy, and resent their treachery.  I never had a brother to love in that way.  Be noble enough to lay aside all self-love and turn our attachment, hitherto so doubtful and full of trouble, into this sweet and sacred love.  In this way I shall be enabled to still live.  I will begin to-night by taking Lady Dudley’s hand.”

She did not weep as she said these words so full of bitter knowledge, by which, casting aside the last remaining veil which hid her soul from mine, she showed by how many ties she had linked herself to me, how many chains I had hewn apart.  Our emotions were so great that for a time we did not notice it was raining heavily.

“Will Madame la comtesse wait here under shelter?” asked the coachman, pointing to the chief inn of Ballan.

She made a sign of assent, and we stayed nearly half an hour under the vaulted entrance, to the great surprise of the inn-people who wondered what brought Madame de Mortsauf on that road at eleven o’clock at night.  Was she going to Tours?  Had she come from there?  When the storm ceased and the rain turned to what is called in Touraine a “brouee,” which does not hinder the moon from shining through the higher mists as the wind with its upper currents whirls them away, the coachman drove from our shelter, and, to my great delight, turned to go back the way we came.

“Follow my orders,” said the countess, gently.

We now took the road across the Charlemagne moor, where the rain began again.  Half-way across I heard the barking of Arabella’s dog; a horse came suddenly from beneath a clump of oaks, jumped the ditch which owners of property dig around their cleared lands when they consider them suitable for cultivation, and carried Lady Dudley to the moor to meet the carriage.

“What pleasure to meet a love thus if it can be done without sin,” said Henriette.

The barking of the dog had told Lady Dudley that I was in the carriage.  She thought, no doubt, that I had brought it to meet her on account of the rain.  When we reached the spot where she was waiting, she urged her horse to the side of the road with the equestrian dexterity for which she was famous, and which to Henriette seemed marvellous.

“Amedee,” she said, and the name in her English pronunciation had a fairy-like charm.

“He is here, madame,” said the countess, looking at the fantastic creature plainly visible in the moonlight, whose impatient face was oddly swathed in locks of hair now out of curl.

You know with what swiftness two women examine each other.  The Englishwoman recognized her rival, and was gloriously English; she gave us a look full of insular contempt, and disappeared in the underbrush with the rapidity of an arrow.