and I suffered joyfully, seeing that we were called to bear the same yoke—­My God!  I have been firm, faithful to my husband; I have given you no foothold, Felix, in your kingdom.  The grandeur of my passion has reacted on my character; I have regarded the tortures Monsieur de Mortsauf has inflicted on me as expiations; I bore them proudly in condemnation of my faulty desires.  Formerly I was disposed to murmur at my life, but since you entered it I have recovered some gaiety, and this has been the better for the count.  Without this strength, which I derived through you, I should long since have succumbed to the inward life of which I told you.

If you have counted for much in the exercise of my duty so have my children also.  I felt I had deprived them of something, and I feared I could never do enough to make amends to them; my life was thus a continual struggle which I loved.  Feeling that I was less a mother, less an honest wife, remorse entered my heart; fearing to fail in my obligations, I constantly went beyond them.  Often have I put Madeleine between you and me, giving you to each other, raising barriers between us,—­barriers that were powerless! for what could stifle the emotions which you caused me?  Absent or present, you had the same power.  I preferred Madeleine to Jacques because Madeleine was sometime to be yours.  But I did not yield you to my daughter without a struggle.  I told myself that I was only twenty-eight when I first met you, and you were nearly twenty-two; I shortened the distance between us; I gave myself up to delusive hopes.  Oh, Felix!  I tell you these things to save you from remorse; also, perhaps, to show you that I was not cold and insensible, that our sufferings were cruelly mutual; that Arabella had no superiority of love over mine.  I too am the daughter of a fallen race, such as men love well.

There came a moment when the struggle was so terrible that I wept the long nights through; my hair fell off,—­you have it!  Do you remember the count’s illness?  Your nobility of soul far from raising my soul belittled it.  Alas!  I dreamed of giving myself to you some day as the reward of so much heroism; but the folly was a brief one.  I laid it at the feet of God during the mass that day when you refused to be with me.  Jacques’ illness and Madeleine’s sufferings seemed to me the warnings of God calling back to Him His lost sheep.

Then your love—­which is so natural—­for that Englishwoman revealed to me secrets of which I had no knowledge.  I loved you better than I knew.  The constant emotions of this stormy life, the efforts that I made to subdue myself with no other succor than that religion gave me, all, all has brought about the malady of which I die.  The terrible shocks I have undergone brought on attacks about which I kept silence.  I saw in death the sole solution of this hidden tragedy.  A lifetime of anger, jealousy, and rage lay in those two months between the time my mother