these last few weeks had increased his illness and brought back all his former pains; the struggle which he foresaw between his authority as a father and that of his daughter, now mistress of the house, would end his days in bitterness; for though he should have struggled against his wife, he should, he knew, be forced to give way before his child.  Besides, his son was soon to leave him; his daughter would marry, and what sort of son-in-law was he likely to have?  Though he thus talked of dying, his real distress was in feeling himself alone for many years to come without sympathy.

During this hour when he spoke only of himself, and asked for my friendship in his wife’s name, he completed a picture in my mind of the remarkable figure of the Emigre,—­one of the most imposing types of our period.  In appearance he was frail and broken, but life seemed persistent in him because of his sober habits and his country avocations.  He is still living.

Though Madeleine could see me on the terrace, she did not come down.  Several times she came out upon the portico and went back in again, as if to signify her contempt.  I seized a moment when she appeared to beg the count to go to the house and call her, saying I had a last wish of her mother to convey to her, and this would be my only opportunity of doing so.  The count brought her, and left us alone together on the terrace.

“Dear Madeleine,” I said, “if I am to speak to you, surely it should be here where your mother listened to me when she felt she had less reason to complain of me than of the circumstances of life.  I know your thoughts; but are you not condemning me without a knowledge of the facts?  My life and happiness are bound up in this place; you know that, and yet you seek to banish me by the coldness you show, in place of the brotherly affection which has always united us, and which death should have strengthened by the bonds of a common grief.  Dear Madeleine, you for whom I would gladly give my life without hope of recompense, without your even knowing it,—­so deeply do we love the children of those who have succored us,—­you are not aware of the project your adorable mother cherished during the last seven years.  If you knew it your feelings would doubtless soften towards me; but I do not wish to take advantage of you now.  All that I ask is that you do not deprive me of the right to come here, to breathe the air on this terrace, and to wait until time has changed your ideas of social life.  At this moment I desire not to ruffle them; I respect a grief which misleads you, for it takes even from me the power of judging soberly the circumstances in which I find myself.  The saint who now looks down upon us will approve the reticence with which I simply ask that you stand neutral between your present feelings and my wishes.  I love you too well, in spite of the aversion you are showing me, to say one word to the count of a proposal he would welcome eagerly.  Be free.  Later, remember that you know no one in the world as you know me, that no man will ever have more devoted feelings—­”