he conclusion of the war he returned, and Clarissa
received an intimation of his desire that she should live with him; she
refused, however, and declared her refusal, moreover, in writing,
incensed that he should have sent strangers to negotiate with her. But
she learned that he was wounded, and this caused a revulsion of
feeling. In the night, by secret passages, with ceremonious
formalities, the Colonel was carried into the chateau, and Clarissa
tended him, in a remote chamber, with faithful care. As long as it
remained secret, the new sort of relationship to the man as a lover
fascinated her, but her mother discovered everything and believed that
nothing stood in the way of a complete reconciliation between the pair.
Clarissa succeeded in removing him; in a thicket near the village she
had nightly rendezvous with him. Colonel Mirabel, however, grew weary
of these singular doings; he obtained a position in Lyons, but died
soon after from the consequences of his excesses.

Years passed; her mother, too, died, and Clarissa's grief was so
overwhelming that she would spend entire days at the grave, and the
influence of her more readily consoled father alone succeeded in
inducing her to reconcile herself to her lonely, empty existence. Left
completely to herself, she indulged in the pleasure of indiscriminate
reading, and her wishes turned, with hidden passion, toward great
experiences. Her peculiar tastes and habits made her a subject of
gossip in the little town; she had children and half-grown boys and
girls come to the chateau, and recited poems to them and trained them
for acting. Her frank nature created enemies; she said what she
thought, offended with no ill intention, caused confusion and gossip in
all innocence, exaggerated petty things and overlooked great ones, took
pleasure at times in masking, appearing in disguise, and impersonating
imaginary characters, and captivated the susceptible by the charm of
her speech, the bright versatility of her spirit, the winning
heartiness of her manner.

She was now thirty-five years old; but not only because she was so
exceedingly slender, small, and dainty, did she seem like a girl of
eighteen--her nature, too, was permeated by a rare spirit of youth; and
when her eye rested, absorbed and contemplative, upon an object, it had
the clearness and dreamy sweetness of the gaze of a child. She was a
product of the border: southern vivacity and northern gravity had
resulted in