“Again!” she said, withdrawing her hand as if it pained her.  “Are you determined to deny me the sad comfort of letting my wounds be stanched by a friendly hand?  Do not add to my sufferings; you do not know them all; those that are hidden are the worst to bear.  If you were a woman you would know the melancholy disgust that fills her soul when she sees herself the object of attentions which atone for nothing, but are thought to atone for all.  For the next few days I shall be courted and caressed, that I may pardon the wrong that has been done.  I could then obtain consent to any wish of mine, however unreasonable.  I am humiliated by his humility, by caresses which will cease as soon as he imagines that I have forgotten that scene.  To owe our master’s good graces to his faults—­”

“His crimes!” I interrupted quickly.

“Is not that a frightful condition of existence?” she continued, with a sad smile.  “I cannot use this transient power.  At such times I am like the knights who could not strike a fallen adversary.  To see in the dust a man whom we ought to honor, to raise him only to enable him to deal other blows, to suffer from his degradation more than he suffers himself, to feel ourselves degraded if we profit by such influence for even a useful end, to spend our strength, to waste the vigor of our souls in struggles that have no grandeur, to have no power except for a moment when a fatal crisis comes—­ah, better death!  If I had no children I would let myself drift on the wretched current of this life; but if I lose my courage, what will become of them?  I must live for them, however cruel this life may be.  You talk to me of love.  Ah! my dear friend, think of the hell into which I should fling myself if I gave that pitiless being, pitiless like all weak creatures, the right to despise me.  The purity of my conduct is my strength.  Virtue, dear friend, is holy water in which we gain fresh strength, from which we issue renewed in the love of God.”

“Listen to me, dear Henriette; I have only another week to stay here, and I wish—­”

“Ah, you mean to leave us!” she exclaimed.

“You must know what my father intends to do with me,” I replied.  “It is now three months—­”

“I have not counted the days,” she said, with momentary self-abandonment.  Then she checked herself and cried, “Come, let us go to Frapesle.”

She called the count and the children, sent for a shawl, and when all were ready she, usually so calm and slow in all her movements, became as active as a Parisian, and we started in a body to pay a visit at Frapesle which the countess did not owe.  She forced herself to talk to Madame de Chessel, who was fortunately discursive in her answers.  The count and Monsieur de Chessel conversed on business.  I was afraid the former might boast of his carriage and horses; but he committed no such solecisms.  His neighbor questioned him about his projected improvements