to herself, and that he
understood from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram,
and thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed the
steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak
with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of
days long past into the mind of the countess; those days probably when
her love for Bertram's father first began; and she said to herself,
"Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs
to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we are
nature's children, these faults are ours, though then we think not they
are faults."

While the countess was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own
youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, "Helena, you know I am a
mother to you." Helena replied, "You are my honourable mistress." "You
are my daughter," said the countess again: "I say I am your mother. Why
do you start and look pale at my words?" With looks of alarm and
confused thoughts, fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena still
replied, "Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; the Count Rousillon
cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter." "Yet, Helena," said the
countess, "you might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what
you mean to be, the words _mother_ and _daughter_ so disturb you.
Helena, do you love my son?" "Good madam, pardon me," said the
affrighted Helena. Again the countess repeated her question, "Do you
love my son?" "Do not you love him, madam?" said Helena. The countess
replied, "Give me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose
the state of your affections, for your love has to the full appeared."
Helena on her knees now owned her love, and with shame and terror
implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with words expressive of
the sense she had of the inequality between their fortunes, she
protested Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble
unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun that looks upon his
worshipper, but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she
had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the design she had
formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the king's illness.
"This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," said the countess,
"was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord your son made
me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and t