seas, of exiling myself from France with you, of dying far from all who have loved me, leaning for sole support on a heart that doubts me.  Fool that I am!  I thought that truth had a glance, an accent, that could not be mistaken, that would be respected!  Ah! when I think of it, tears choke me.  Why, if it must ever be thus, induce me to take a step that will forever destroy my peace?  My head is confused, I do not know where I am!”

She leaned on me weeping.  “Fool!  Fool!” she repeated, in a heartrending voice.

“And what is it you ask?” she continued, “what can I do to meet those suspicions that are ever born anew, that alter with your moods?  I must justify myself, you say!  For what?  For loving, for dying, for despairing?  And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even that cheerfulness offends you.  I sacrifice everything to follow you and you have not gone a league before you look back.  Always, everywhere, whatever I may do, insults and anger!”

“Ah! dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, what suffering I endure in seeing my simplest words this taken up and hurled back at me with suspicion and sarcasm!  By that course you deprive yourself of the only happiness there is in the world—­perfect love.  You kill all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts of those who love you; soon you will believe in nothing except the material and the gross; of love there will remain for you only that which is visible and can be touched with the finger.  You are young, Octave, and you have still a long life before you; you will have other mistresses.  Yes, as you say, pride is a little thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; but God wills that your tears shall one day pay me for those which I now shed for you!”

She arose.

“Must it be said?  Must you know that for six months I have not sought repose without repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that you would never be cured; that I have never risen in the morning without saying that another effort must be made; that after every word you have spoken I have felt that I ought to leave you, and that you have not given me a caress that I would rather die than endure; that, day by day, minute by minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly tried to conquer either my love or my grief; that, when I opened my heart to you, you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that, when I closed it, it seemed to me I felt within it a treasure that none but you could dispense?  Shall I speak of all the frailty and all the mysteries which seem puerile to those who do not respect them?  Shall I tell you that when you left me in anger I shut myself up to read your first letters; that there is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felt too keenly the suffering caused by your presence?  Ah! wretch that I am!  How dearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies, so sweet to the feeble, are purchased!  Weep now; not even this punishment, this sorrow, will avail you.”