“’I cannot be completely happy as long as I know that you are unhappy.  But there is no sorrow which time does not heal.  You will forget’—­

“‘Never!’ she cried.

“And, lowering her voice, she added,—­

“’Can I forget you?  Alas! my crime is fearful; but the punishment is still more so.’

“People were coming down the road.

“‘Compose yourself,’ I said.

“She made an effort to control her emotion.  The people passed us, saluting politely.  And after a moment she said again,—­

“‘Well, and when is the wedding?’

“I trembled.  She herself insisted upon an explanation.

“‘No day has as yet been fixed,’ I replied.  ’Had I not to see you first?  You uttered once grave threats.’

“‘And you were afraid?’

“’No:  I was sure I knew you too well to fear that you would punish me for having loved you, as if that had been a crime.  So many things have happened since the day when you made those threats!’

“‘Yes,’ she replied, ’many things indeed!  My poor father is incorrigible.  Once more he has committed himself fearfully; and once more my husband has been compelled to sacrifice a large sum to save him.  Ah, Count Claudieuse has a noble heart; and it is a great pity I should be the only one towards whom he has failed to show generosity.  Every kindness which he shows me is a new grievance for me; but, having accepted them all, I have forfeited the right to strike him, as I had intended to do.  You may marry Dionysia, Jacques; you have nothing to fear from me.’

“Ah!  I had not hoped for so much, Magloire.  Overcome with joy, I seized her hand, and raising it to my lips, I said,—­

“‘You are the kindest of friends.’

“But promptly, as if my lips had burnt her hand, she drew it back, and said, turning very pale,—­

“‘No, don’t do that!’

“Then, overcoming her emotion to a certain degree, she added,—­

“‘But we must meet once more.  You have my letters, I dare say.’

“‘I have them all.’

“’Well, you must bring them to me.  But where?  And how?  I can hardly absent myself at this time.  My youngest daughter—­our daughter, Jacques—­is very ill.  Still, an end must be made.  Let us see, on Thursday—­are you free then?  Yes.  Very well, then come on Thursday evening, towards nine o’clock, to Valpinson.  You will find me at the edge of the wood, near the towers of the old castle, which my husband has repaired.’

“‘Is that quite prudent?’ I asked.

“‘Have I ever left any thing to chance?’ she replied, ’and would I be apt, at this time, to be imprudent?  Rely on me.  Come, we must part, Jacques.  Thursday, and be punctual!’

“Was I really free?  Was the chain really broken?  And had I become once more my own master?

“I thought so, and in my almost delirious joy I forgave the countess all the anxieties of the last year.  What do I say?  I began to accuse myself of injustice and cruelty.  I admired her for sacrificing herself to my happiness.  I felt, in the fulness of my gratitude, like kneeling down, and kissing the hem of her dress.