g; opinion alone
sanctions and condemns. This, Alamontade, is a picture of my husband.
He cannot love me, for he only loves himself. His mind and taste
change, and with them his nature. With iron perseverance he pursues
and attains his ends. The son of a much respected family, which had
been reduced in circumstances, he wished to be rich, so he became a
merchant, went to distant lands and returned the possessor of a
million. He then wished to secure his wealth by uniting himself with
one of the most respectable families of this city, and I became his
wife. Desirous to possess influence in public affairs, without
exciting envy, he made himself popular, and refused the most honourable
posts of office. In his opinion nothing is unattainable; he considers
nothing sacred; he conquers every obstacle; no one is too strong for
him, because all are weak by some propensity, passion, and opinion."

This picture of Bertollon's character staggered me. I found it
corresponding to the original in every particular. I had never formed
a clear idea of all this, although I had felt it. I discovered the
enormous chasm that separated their hearts, and despaired of ever being
able to fill it up.

"But, madame," said I, pressing her hand with emotion, "do not despair;
your persevering affection and virtue will finally triumph over him."

"Virtue! Oh, my dear Alamontade, what can be expected from a man who
calls it a weakness, or one-sidedness of character, or prudery of mind?
From one who considers religion only as the toy of church and
education,--the toy with which the fancy of the shortsighted plays with
childish zeal?"

"But still he possesses a heart."

"He has a heart, but only for himself--not for others. He wishes to be
loved without any sacrifice of feeling on his part. Alas! can one love
such a man? No, Alamontade, love demands something more; it gives
itself up to the beloved object, exists in it, and is not master of
itself; it does not calculate, it knows no care; it takes its chance
whether fidelity will at length bless it or treachery destroy it. But
it cannot exist without hope; it demands the heart of its object, and
in that finds its heaven."

"And in that it finds its heaven," sighed I, as I again stood in my own
chamber and thought of Clementine.

I took down the withered wreath, which had been hitherto a sacred
pledge of Clementine's favour, and hung it upon my harp. Had she not
herself thrown it