At last her manner became so cold and indifferent that I resolved to leave Clochegourde.  That evening, on the terrace, I said farewell to the whole family, who were there assembled.  They all followed me to the lawn where my horse was waiting.  The countess came to me as I took the bridle in my hand.

“Let us walk down the avenue together, alone,” she said.

I gave her my arm, and we passed through the courtyard with slow and measured steps, as though our rhythmic movement were consoling to us.  When we reached the grove of trees which forms a corner of the boundary she stopped.

“Farewell, my friend,” she said, throwing her head upon my breast and her arms around my neck, “Farewell, we shall never meet again.  God has given me the sad power to look into the future.  Do you remember the terror that seized me the day you first came back, so young, so handsome! and I saw you turn your back on me as you do this day when you are leaving Clochegourde and going to Saint-Cyr?  Well, once again, during the past night I have seen into the future.  Friend, we are speaking together for the last time.  I can hardly now say a few words to you, for it is but a part of me that speaks at all.  Death has already seized on something in me.  You have taken the mother from her children, I now ask you to take her place to them.  You can; Jacques and Madeleine love you—­as if you had always made them suffer.”

“Death!” I cried, frightened as I looked at her and beheld the fire of her shining eyes, of which I can give no idea to those who have never known their dear ones struck down by her fatal malady, unless I compare those eyes to balls of burnished silver.  “Die!” I said.  “Henriette, I command you to live.  You used to ask an oath of me, I now ask one of you.  Swear to me that you will send for Origet and obey him in everything.”

“Would you oppose the mercy of God?” she said, interrupting me with a cry of despair at being thus misunderstood.

“You do not love me enough to obey me blindly, as that miserable Lady Dudley does?”

“Yes, yes, I will do all you ask,” she cried, goaded by jealousy.

“Then I stay,” I said, kissing her on the eyelids.

Frightened at the words, she escaped from my arms and leaned against a tree; then she turned and walked rapidly homeward without looking back.  But I followed her; she was weeping and praying.  When we reached the lawn I took her hand and kissed it respectfully.  This submission touched her.

“I am yours—­forever, and as you will,” I said; “for I love you as your aunt loved you.”

She trembled and wrung my hand.

“One look,” I said, “one more, one last of our old looks!  The woman who gives herself wholly,” I cried, my soul illumined by the glance she gave me, “gives less of life and soul than I have now received.  Henriette, thou art my best-beloved—­my only love.”

“I shall live!” she said; “but cure yourself as well.”