into their movements; till they glow once more with the beauty,
the persuasive grace of sentiment, the loveliness of life.

Charles found Mme. d'Aiglemont absorbed in thought, and to his "What is
it?" spoken in thrilling tones grown persuasive with the heart's soft
magic, she was careful not to reply. The delicious question bore witness
to the perfect unity of their spirits; and the Marquise felt, with a
woman's wonderful intuition, that to give any expression to the sorrow
in her heart would be to make an advance. If, even now, each one
of those words was fraught with significance for them both, in what
fathomless depths might she not plunge at the first step? She read
herself with a clear and lucid glance. She was silent, and Vandenesse
followed her example.

"I am not feeling well," she said at last, taking alarm at the pause
fraught with such great moment for them both, when the language of the
eyes completely filled the blank left by the helplessness of speech.

"Madame," said Charles, and his voice was tender but unsteady with
strong feeling, "soul and body are both dependent on each other. If you
were happy, you would be young and fresh. Why do you refuse to ask of
love all that love has taken from you? You think that your life is over
when it is only just beginning. Trust yourself to a friend's care. It is
so sweet to be loved."

"I am old already," she said; "there is no reason why I should not
continue to suffer as in the past. And 'one must love,' do you say?
Well, I must not, and I cannot. Your friendship has put some sweetness
into my life, but beside you I care for no one, no one could efface my
memories. A friend I accept; I should fly from a lover. Besides, would
it be a very generous thing to do, to exchange a withered heart for a
young heart; to smile upon illusions which now I cannot share, to cause
happiness in which I should either have no belief, or tremble to lose?
I should perhaps respond to his devotion with egoism, should weigh and
deliberate while he felt; my memory would resent the poignancy of his
happiness. No, if you love once, that love is never replaced, you see.
Indeed, who would have my heart at this price?"

There was a tinge of heartless coquetry in the words, the last effort of
discretion.

"If he loses courage, well and good, I shall live alone and faithful."
The thought came from the very depths of the woman, for her it was the
too slender willow twig caught in vain by