“Victorine,” he said, and then paused a moment for a reply, but, as she did not answer him, he went on.  “Victorine, I want you to be all yourself now, while I speak to you.  Can you listen to me calmly, love, while I speak to you seriously?”

She said that she would, but the tone in which she said it, hardly gave confirmation to her promise.

“I hardly know what account you have yet heard of that unfortunate battle.”

“Oh!  I have heard that it was most unfortunate:  unfortunate to all, but most unfortunate to us.”

“It was unfortunate.  I hope those who spoke to you of it, deceived you with no false hopes, for that would have been mere cruelty.  Give me your hand, my love; I hope they told you the truth.  You know, dearest, do you not, that—­that—­that my wound is mortal?”

She strove hard to control her feelings.  She bit her under lip between her teeth; she pressed her feet against the bed, and grasped the loose clothes with the hand which was disengaged.  The virtue on which her husband most prided himself was calmness and self-possession in affliction.  She knew that he now expected that virtue from her, and that nothing would so grieve him as to see her render herself weakly up to her sorrow, and she strove hard to control it; but all her exertion did not enable her to answer him.  It seemed almost miraculous to herself that she could sit there, and retain her consciousness, and hear him utter such words.  Had she attempted to speak, the effort would have overcome her.

“For heaven’s sake, Victorine, let nothing, let nobody deceive you; know the worst, and look to Christ for power to bear it, and you will find the burden not too heavy to be borne.  You and I, love, must part in this world.  We have passed our lives together without one shadow to darken the joy of our union:  we have been greatly blessed beyond others.  Can we complain because our happiness on earth is not eternal?  Is it not a great comfort that we can thus speak together before we part; that I have been allowed to live to see your dear face, to feel your breath on my cheek, and to hear your voice? to tell you, with the assurance which the approach of death gives me, that these sorrows are but for a time, and that our future joys shall be everlasting?  And I must thank you, Victorine, for your tender care, your constant love.  You have made me happy here; you have helped to fit me for happiness hereafter.  It is owing to you that even this hour has but little bitterness for me.  Are we not happy, dearest; are we not happy even now in each other’s love?”

Madame de Lescure had, while her husband was speaking, sunk upon her knees beside his bed, and was now bathing his hand with her tears.

“I cannot blame you for your tears,” he said, “for human nature must have her way; but my Victorine will remember that she must not give way to her sorrow, as other women may do.  Rise, dearest, and let me see your face.  I feel that I have strength now to tell you all that I have to say.  I may probably never have that strength again.”