de. I
groped through the darkness as far as the door of the mill; near the
threshold, stood a horse bearing a side-saddle. I ran madly around to the
other side of the ruins, and within the inclosure situated beneath the
window of my cell, and which still retains some traces of the former
cemetery of the monks, I found the unhappy creature. She was there,
sitting on an old tomb-stone, as if overwhelmed, shivering in all her
limbs under the chilling torrent of rain which a pitiless sky was pouring
without interruption over her light party-dress. I seized her two hands,
trying to raise her up.

"Ah! unhappy child! what have you done!"

"Yes, most unhappy!" she murmured, in a voice as faint as a breath.

"But you are killing yourself."

"So much the better--so much the better!"

"You cannot remain there! Come!--"

I saw that she was unable to stand up alone.

"Ah! _Dieu bon! Dieu puissant!_ what shall I do? What's to become of you
now? What do you wish with me?"

She made no reply. She was trembling, and her teeth were chattering. I
lifted her up in my arms and I carried her in. The mind works fast in such
moments. No conceivable means of removing her from this valley where
carriages cannot penetrate; nothing was henceforth possible to save her
honor; I must only think of her life. I scaled rapidly the steps leading
to my cell, and I seated her on a chair in front of the chimney in which I
hastily kindled a fire; then I woke up my hosts. I gave to the miller's
wife a vague and confused explanation. I know not how much of it she
understood; but she is a woman, she took pity and went on bestowing upon
Madame de Palme such care as was in her power. Her husband started at once
on horseback, carrying to Madame de Malouet the following note from me:

"MADAM:--She is here, dying. In the name of the God of mercy, I beseech
you, I implore you--come to console, come to bless her who can no
longer expect words of kindness and forgiveness from any one but you
in this world.

"Pray tell Madame de Pontbrian whatever you think proper."

She was calling me. I returned to her side. I found her still seated
before the fire. She had refused to be put into the bed that had been
prepared for her. When she saw me--singular womanly preoccupation!--her
first thought was for the coarse peasant's dress she had just exchanged
for her own water-soaked and mud-stained garments. She laughed as she
called my attention to it; but her laughter