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."

I tried to interrupt her.

"Allow me to continue," she said; "the time has come when I must speak.
Let us see, why do you doubt me? For six months, in thought, in body,
and in soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you dare
suspect me? Do you wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as you
see. Do you think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will sign
and you will direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let us
decide. Are we not always together? Very well then, why would you leave
me? I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment. It
is necessary to have confidence in those we love. Love is either good or
bad: if good, we must believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves of
it. All this, you see, is a game we are playing; but our hearts and our
lives are the stakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to die? That would
perhaps be better. Who am I that you should doubt me?"

She stopped before the glass.

"Who am I?" she repeated, "who am I? Think of it. Look at this face of
mine."

"Doubt thee!" she cried, addressing her own image; "poor, pale face,
thou art suspected! poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thy
tears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let
those kisses that have wasted thee close thy lids! Descend into the cold
earth, poor trembling body that can no longer support its own weight.
When thou art there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes
in death. O sorrowful spectre! On the banks of what stream wilt thou
wander and groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long
journey and thou hast one foot in the grave!

"Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. Ah! what wealth
of love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what dreams thou hast had,
what