at the Cassine and the Rhetoriere.  I looked at the count, wondering if he would avoid a subject of conversation so full of painful memories to all, so cruelly mortifying to him.  On the contrary, he explained how urgent a duty it was to better the agricultural condition of the canton, to build good houses and make the premises salubrious; in short, he glorified himself with his wife’s ideas.  I blushed as I looked at her.  Such want of scruple in a man who, on certain occasions, could be scrupulous enough, this oblivion of the dreadful scene, this adoption of ideas against which he had fought so violently, this confident belief in himself, petrified me.

When Monsieur de Chessel said to him, “Do you expect to recover your outlay?”

“More than recover it!” he exclaimed, with a confident gesture.

Such contradictions can be explained only by the word “insanity.”  Henriette, celestial creature, was radiant.  The count was appearing to be a man of intelligence, a good administrator, an excellent agriculturist; she played with her boy’s curly head, joyous for him, happy for herself.  What a comedy of pain, what mockery in this drama; I was horrified by it.  Later in life, when the curtain of the world’s stage was lifted before me, how many other Mortsaufs I saw without the loyalty and the religious faith of this man.  What strange, relentless power is it that perpetually awards an angel to a madman; to a man of heart, of true poetic passion, a base woman; to the petty, grandeur; to this demented brain, a beautiful, sublime being; to Juana, Captain Diard, whose history at Bordeaux I have told you; to Madame de Beauseant, an Ajuda; to Madame d’Aiglemont, her husband; to the Marquis d’Espard, his wife!  Long have I sought the meaning of this enigma.  I have ransacked many mysteries, I have discovered the reason of many natural laws, the purport of some divine hieroglyphics; of the meaning of this dark secret I know nothing.  I study it as I would the form of an Indian weapon, the symbolic construction of which is known only to the Brahmans.  In this dread mystery the spirit of Evil is too visibly the master; I dare not lay the blame to God.  Anguish irremediable, what power finds amusement in weaving you?  Can Henriette and her mysterious philosopher be right?  Does their mysticism contain the explanation of humanity?

The autumn leaves were falling during the last few days which I passed in the valley, days of lowering clouds, which do sometimes obscure the heaven of Touraine, so pure, so warm at that fine season.  The evening before my departure Madame de Mortsauf took me to the terrace before dinner.