My hurried journey was like a dream,—­the dream of a ruined gambler; I was in despair at having received no news.  Had the confessor pushed austerity so far as to exclude me from Clochegourde?  I accused Madeleine, Jacques, the Abbe Dominis, all, even Monsieur de Mortsauf.  Beyond Tours, as I came down the road bordered with poplars which leads to Poncher, which I so much admired that first day of my search for mine Unknown, I met Monsieur Origet.  He guessed that I was going to Clochegourde; I guessed that he was returning.  We stopped our carriages and got out, I to ask for news, he to give it.

“How is Madame de Mortsauf?” I said.

“I doubt if you find her living,” he replied.  “She is dying a frightful death—­of inanition.  When she called me in, last June, no medical power could control the disease; she had the symptoms which Monsieur de Mortsauf has no doubt described to you, for he thinks he has them himself.  Madame la comtesse was not in any transient condition of ill-health, which our profession can direct and which is often the cause of a better state, nor was she in the crisis of a disorder the effects of which can be repaired; no, her disease had reached a point where science is useless; it is the incurable result of grief, just as a mortal wound is the result of a stab.  Her physical condition is produced by the inertia of an organ as necessary to life as the action of the heart itself.  Grief has done the work of a dagger.  Don’t deceive yourself; Madame de Mortsauf is dying of some hidden grief.”

“Hidden!” I exclaimed.  “Her children have not been ill?”

“No,” he said, looking at me significantly, “and since she has been so seriously attacked Monsieur de Mortsauf has ceased to torment her.  I am no longer needed; Monsieur Deslandes of Azay is all-sufficient; nothing can be done; her sufferings are dreadful.  Young, beautiful, and rich, to die emaciated, shrunken with hunger—­for she dies of hunger!  During the last forty days the stomach, being as it were closed up, has rejected all nourishment, under whatever form we attempt to give it.”

Monsieur Origet pressed my hand with a gesture of respect.

“Courage, monsieur,” he said, lifting his eyes to heaven.

The words expressed his compassion for sufferings he thought shared; he little suspected the poisoned arrow which they shot into my heart.  I sprang into the carriage and ordered the postilion to drive on, promising a good reward if I arrived in time.

Notwithstanding my impatience I seemed to do the distance in a few minutes, so absorbed was I in the bitter reflections that crowded upon my soul.  Dying of grief, yet her children were well? then she died through me!  My conscience uttered one of those arraignments which echo throughout our lives and sometimes beyond them.  What weakness, what impotence in human justice, which avenges none but open deeds!  Why shame and death to the murderer who kills with