that drench this sheet tell you all my gratitude?  I could wish that I had knelt to write the words!—­Well, out of this felicity has arisen torture more terrible than the pain of desertion.  Dear, there are very deep recesses in a woman’s heart; how deep in my own heart, I did not know myself until to-day, as I did not know the whole extent of love.  The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a light burden compared with the mere thought of harm for him whom we love.  And how if we cause the harm, is it not enough to make one die? . . .  This is the thought that is weighing upon me.  But it brings in its train another thought that is heavier far, a thought that tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and turns it into a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts.  You are thirty years old; I am forty.  What dread this difference in age calls up in a woman who loves!  It is possible that, first of all unconsciously, afterwards in earnest, you have felt the sacrifices that you have made by renouncing all in the world for me.  Perhaps you have thought of your future from the social point of view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase your fortune, and give you avowed happiness and children who would inherit your wealth; perhaps you have thought of reappearing in the world, and filling your place there honorably.  And then, if so, you must have repressed those thoughts, and felt glad to sacrifice heiress and fortune and a fair future to me without my knowledge.  In your young man’s generosity, you must have resolved to be faithful to the vows which bind us each to each in the sight of God.  My past pain has risen up before your mind, and the misery from which you rescued me has been my protection.  To owe your love to your pity!  The thought is even more painful to me than the fear of spoiling your life for you.  The man who can bring himself to stab his mistress is very charitable if he gives her her deathblow while she is happy and ignorant of evil, while illusions are in full blossom. . . .  Yes, death is preferable to the two thoughts which have secretly saddened the hours for several days.  To-day, when you asked ‘What ails you?’ so tenderly, the sound of your voice made me shiver.  I thought that, after your wont, you were reading my very soul, and I waited for your confidence to come, thinking that my presentiments had come true, and that I had guessed all that was going on in your mind.  Then I began to think over certain little things that you always do for me, and I thought I could see in you the sort of affection by which a man betrays a consciousness that his loyalty is becoming a burden.  And in that moment I paid very dear for my happiness.  I felt that Nature always demands the price for the treasure called love.  Briefly, has not fate separated us?  Can you have said, ’Sooner or later I must leave poor Claire; why not separate in time?’ I read that thought in the depths of your eyes, and went away to cry by myself.