passion was too fierce to allow of it.

"Farewell, my angel, forgive me my next fit of sadness in
consideration of this cheerful mood; it has come as a beam of
light from the torch of Hope, which has hitherto seemed to me a
Will-o'-the-wisp."

"How he loves her!" cried Rosalie, dropping the letter, which seemed
heavy in her hand. "After eleven years to write like this!"

"Mariette," said Mademoiselle de Watteville to her maid next morning,
"go and post this letter. Tell Jerome that I know all I wish to know,
and that he is to serve Monsieur Albert faithfully. We will confess our
sins, you and I, without saying to whom the letters belonged, nor to
whom they were going. I was in the wrong; I alone am guilty."

"Mademoiselle has been crying?" said Mariette.

"Yes, but I do not want that my mother should perceive it; give me some
very cold water."

In the midst of the storms of her passion Rosalie often listened to
the voice of conscience. Touched by the beautiful fidelity of these two
hearts, she had just said her prayers, telling herself that there was
nothing left to her but to be resigned, and to respect the happiness of
two beings worthy of each other, submissive to fate, looking to God for
everything, without allowing themselves any criminal acts or wishes.
She felt a better woman, and had a certain sense of satisfaction after
coming to this resolution, inspired by the natural rectitude of youth.
And she was confirmed in it by a girl's idea: She was sacrificing
herself for _him_.

"She does not know how to love," thought she. "Ah! if it were I--I would
give up everything to a man who loved me so.--To be loved!--When, by
whom shall I be loved? That little Monsieur de Soulas only loves my
money; if I were poor, he would not even look at me."

"Rosalie, my child, what are you thinking about? You are working
beyond the outline," said the Baroness to her daughter, who was making
worsted-work slippers for the Baron.

* * * * *

Rosalie spent the winter of 1834-35 torn by secret tumults; but in the
spring, in the month of April, when she reached the age of nineteen,
she sometimes thought that it would be a fine thing to triumph over
a Duchesse d'Argaiolo. In silence and solitude the prospect of this
struggle had fanned her passion and her evil thoughts. She encouraged
her romantic daring by making plan after plan. Although such characters
are an exception, there are, unfortunately, too many Rosalies in