“Do not seek to excuse him, madame,” I replied.  “I will do all you wish.  I would fling myself into the Indre at this moment if I could restore Monsieur de Mortsauf’s health and ensure you a happy life.  The only thing I cannot change is my opinion.  I can give you my life, but not my convictions; I can pay no heed to what he says, but can I hinder him from saying it?  No, in my opinion Monsieur de Mortsauf is—­”

“I understand you,” she said, hastily interrupting me; “you are right.  The count is as nervous as a fashionable woman,” she added, as if to conceal the idea of madness by softening the word.  “But he is only so at intervals, once a year, when the weather is very hot.  Ah, what evils have resulted from the emigration!  How many fine lives ruined!  He would have been, I am sure of it, a great soldier, an honor to his country—­”

“I know,” I said, interrupting in my turn to let her see that it was useless to attempt to deceive me.

She stopped, laid one hand lightly on my brow, and looked at me.  “Who has sent you here,” she said, “into this home?  Has God sent me help, a true friendship to support me?” She paused, then added, as she laid her hand firmly upon mine, “For you are good and generous—­” She raised her eyes to heaven, as if to invoke some invisible testimony to confirm her thought, and then let them rest upon me.  Electrified by the look, which cast a soul into my soul, I was guilty, judging by social laws, of a want of tact, though in certain natures such indelicacy really means a brave desire to meet danger, to avert a blow, to arrest an evil before it happens; oftener still, an abrupt call upon a heart, a blow given to learn if it resounds in unison with ours.  Many thoughts rose like gleams within my mind and bade me wash out the stain that blotted my conscience at this moment when I was seeking a complete understanding.

“Before we say more,” I said in a voice shaken by the throbbings of my heart, which could be heard in the deep silence that surrounded us, “suffer me to purify one memory of the past.”

“Hush!” she said quickly, touching my lips with a finger which she instantly removed.  She looked at me haughtily, with the glance of a woman who knows herself too exalted for insult to reach her.  “Be silent; I know of what you are about to speak,—­the first, the last, the only outrage ever offered to me.  Never speak to me of that ball.  If as a Christian I have forgiven you, as a woman I still suffer from your act.”

“You are more pitiless than God himself,” I said, forcing back the tears that came into my eyes.

“I ought to be so, I am more feeble,” she replied.

“But,” I continued with the persistence of a child, “listen to me now if only for the first, the last, the only time in your life.”

“Speak, then,” she said; “speak, or you will think I dare not hear you.”

Feeling that this was the turning moment of our lives, I spoke to her in the tone that commands attention; I told her that all women whom I had ever seen were nothing to me; but when I met her, I, whose life was studious, whose nature was not bold, I had been, as it were, possessed by a frenzy that no one who once felt it could condemn; that never heart of man had been so filled with the passion which no being can resist, which conquers all things, even death—­