“Be that as it may, my dear, Adolphe is always warmly welcomed when he comes back home.  Still, no nature is strong enough to await always with the same ardor.  What a morrow that will be, following the evening when his welcome is less warm!

“Now do you see the depth of the fold which I mentioned?  A fold in the heart is an abyss, like a crevasse in the Alps—­a profundity whose depth and extent we have never been able to calculate.  Thus it is between two beings, no matter how near they may be drawn to each other.  One never realizes the weight of suffering which oppresses his friend.  This seems such a little thing, yet one’s life is affected by it in all its length, in all its breadth.  I have thus argued with myself; but the more I have argued, the more thoroughly have I realized the extent of this hidden sorrow.  And I can only let the current carry me whither it will.

“Two voices struggle for supremacy when—­by a rarely fortunate chance —­I am alone in my armchair waiting for Adolphe.  One, I would wager, comes from Eugene Delacroix’s Faust which I have on my table.  Mephistopheles speaks, that terrible aide who guides the swords so dexterously.  He leaves the engraving, and places himself diabolically before me, grinning through the hole which the great artist has placed under his nose, and gazing at me with that eye whence fall rubies, diamonds, carriages, jewels, laces, silks, and a thousand luxuries to feed the burning desire within me.

“‘Are you not fit for society?’ he asks.  ’You are the equal of the fairest duchesses.  Your voice is like a siren’s, your hands command respect and love.  Ah! that arm!—­place bracelets upon it, and how pleasingly it would rest upon the velvet of a robe!  Your locks are chains which would fetter all men.  And you could lay all your triumphs at Adolphe’s feet, show him your power and never use it.  Then he would fear, where now he lives in insolent certainty.  Come!  To action!  Inhale a few mouthfuls of disdain and you will exhale clouds of incense.  Dare to reign!  Are you not next to nothing here in your chimney-corner?  Sooner or later the pretty spouse, the beloved wife will die, if you continue like this, in a dressing-gown.  Come, and you shall perpetuate your sway through the arts of coquetry!  Show yourself in salons, and your pretty foot shall trample down the love of your rivals.’

“The other voice comes from my white marble mantel, which rustles like a garment.  I think I see a veritable goddess crowned with white roses, and bearing a palm-branch in her hand.  Two blue eyes smile down on me.  This simple image of virtue says to me: 

“’Be content!  Remain good always, and make this man happy.  That is the whole of your mission.  The sweetness of angels triumphs over all pain.  Faith in themselves has enabled the martyrs to obtain solace even on the brasiers of their tormentors.  Suffer a moment; you shall be happy in the end.’