lights more sparkling than the light of thine eyes, perfumes for which there are no words —­yesterday thy soul was visible and palpable.  Would I could have opened my heart and made thee live there!  Yesterday I lost the respectful timidity with which thy presence inspires me; thy weakness brought us nearer together.  Then, when the crisis passed and thou couldst bear our atmosphere once more, I knew what it was to breathe in unison with thy breath.  How many prayers rose up to heaven in that moment!  Since I did not die as I rushed through space to ask of God that he would leave thee with me, no human creature can die of joy nor yet of sorrow.  That moment has left memories buried in my soul which never again will reappear upon its surface and leave me tearless.  Yes, the fears with which my soul was tortured yesterday are incomparably greater than all sorrows that the future can bring upon me, just as the joys which thou hast given me, dear eternal thought of my life! will be forever greater than any future joy God may be pleased to grant me.  Thou hast made me comprehend the love divine, that sure love, sure in strength and in duration, that knows no doubt or jealousy.

Deepest melancholy gnawed my soul; the glimpse into that hidden life was agonizing to a young heart new to social emotions; it was an awful thing to find this abyss at the opening of life,—­a bottomless abyss, a Dead Sea.  This dreadful aggregation of misfortunes suggested many thoughts; at my first step into social life I found a standard of comparison by which all other events and circumstances must seem petty.

The next day when I entered the salon she was there alone.  She looked at me for a moment, held out her hand, and said, “My friend is always too tender.”  Her eyes grew moist; she rose, and then she added, in a tone of desperate entreaty, “Never write thus to me again.”

Monsieur de Mortsauf was very kind.  The countess had recovered her courage and serenity; but her pallor betrayed the sufferings of the previous night, which were calmed, but not extinguished.  That evening she said to me, as she paced among the autumn leaves which rustled beneath our footsteps, “Sorrow is infinite; joys are limited,”—­words which betrayed her sufferings by the comparison she made with the fleeting delights of the previous week.

“Do not slander life,” I said to her.  “You are ignorant of love; love gives happiness which shines in heaven.”

“Hush!” she said.  “I wish to know nothing of it.  The Icelander would die in Italy.  I am calm and happy beside you; I can tell you all my thoughts; do not destroy my confidence.  Why will you not combine the virtue of the priest with the charm of a free man.”

“You make me drink the hemlock!” I cried, taking her hand and laying it on my heart, which was beating fast.