“Though I have been a faithful wife to you,” she said, in a faint voice, “I have sometimes failed in my duty.  I have just prayed to God to give me strength to ask your pardon.  I have given to a friendship outside of my family more affectionate care than I have shown to you.  Perhaps I have sometimes irritated you by the comparisons you may have made between these cares, these thoughts, and those I gave to you.  I have had,” she said, in a sinking voice, “a deep friendship, which no one, not even he who has been its object, has fully known.  Though I have continued virtuous according to all human laws, though I have been a irreproachable wife to you, still other thoughts, voluntary or involuntary, have often crossed my mind and, in this hour, I fear I have welcomed them too warmly.  But as I have tenderly loved you, and continued to be your submissive wife, and as the clouds passing beneath the sky do not alter its purity, I now pray for your blessing with a clean heart.  I shall die without one bitter thought if I can hear from your lips a tender word for your Blanche, for the mother of your children,—­if I know that you forgive her those things for which she did not forgive herself till reassured by the great tribunal which pardons all.”

“Blanche, Blanche!” cried the broken man, shedding tears upon his wife’s head, “Would you kill me?” He raised her with a strength unusual to him, kissed her solemnly on the forehead, and thus holding her continued:  “Have I no forgiveness to ask of you?  Have I never been harsh?  Are you not making too much of your girlish scruples?”

“Perhaps,” she said.  “But, dear friend, indulge the weakness of a dying woman; tranquillize my mind.  When you reach this hour you will remember that I left you with a blessing.  Will you grant me permission to leave to our friend now here that pledge of my affection?” she continued, showing a letter that was on the mantelshelf.  “He is now my adopted son, and that is all.  The heart, dear friend, makes its bequests; my last wishes impose a sacred duty on that dear Felix.  I think I do not put too great a burden on him; grant that I do not ask too much of you in desiring to leave him these last words.  You see, I am always a woman,” she said, bending her head with mournful sweetness; “after obtaining pardon I ask a gift—­Read this,” she added, giving me the letter; “but not until after my death.”

The count saw her color change:  he lifted her and carried her himself to the bed, where we all surrounded her.

“Felix,” she said, “I may have done something wrong to you.  Often I gave you pain by letting you hope for that I could not give you; but see, it was that very courage of wife and mother that now enables me to die forgiven of all.  You will forgive me too; you who have so often blamed me, and whose injustice was so dear—­”