“Monsieur,” he said, “I wish you to know that I have done all in my power to prevent this meeting.  The salvation of this saint required it.  I have considered her only, and not you.  Now that you are about to see her to whom access ought to have been denied you by the angels, let me say that I shall be present to protect you against yourself and perhaps against her.  Respect her weakness.  I do not ask this of you as a priest, but as a humble friend whom you did not know you had, and who would fain save you from remorse.  Our dear patient is dying of hunger and thirst.  Since morning she is a victim to the feverish irritation which precedes that horrible death, and I cannot conceal from you how deeply she regrets life.  The cries of her rebellious flesh are stifled in my heart—­where they wake echoes of a wound still tender.  But Monsieur de Dominis and I accept this duty that we may spare the sight of this moral anguish to her family; as it is, they no longer recognize their star by night and by day in her; they all, husband, children, servants, all are asking, ’Where is she?’—­she is so changed!  When she sees you, her regrets will revive.  Lay aside your thoughts as a man of the world, forget its vanities, be to her the auxiliary of heaven, not of earth.  Pray God that this dear saint die not in a moment of doubt, giving voice to her despair.”

I did not answer.  My silence alarmed the poor confessor.  I saw, I heard, I walked, and yet I was no longer on the earth.  The thought, “In what state shall I find her?  Why do they use these precautions?” gave rise to apprehensions which were the more cruel because so indefinite; all forms of suffering crowded my mind.

We reached the door of the chamber and the abbe opened it.  I then saw Henriette, dressed in white, sitting on her little sofa which was placed before the fireplace, on which were two vases filled with flowers; flowers were also on a table near the window.  The expression of the abbe’s face, which was that of amazement at the change in the room, now restored to its former state, showing me that the dying woman had sent away the repulsive preparations which surround a sick-bed.  She had spent the last waning strength of fever in decorating her room to receive him whom in that final hour she loved above all things else.  Surrounded by clouds of lace, her shrunken face, which had the greenish pallor of a magnolia flower as it opens, resembled the first outline of a cherished head drawn in chalks upon the yellow canvas of a portrait.  To feel how deeply the vulture’s talons now buried themselves in my heart, imagine the eyes of that outlined face finished and full of life,—­hollow eyes which shone with a brilliancy unusual in a dying person.  The calm majesty given to her in the past by her constant victory over sorrow was there no longer.  Her forehead, the only part of her face which still kept its beautiful proportions, wore an expression of aggressive will and covert threats.  In spite of the waxy texture