ult. Besides, I should
have to lie in my heart, disguise my voice, lower my head, degrade my
gesture--do not ask of me such falsehoods. I can stand between Monsieur
de Mortsauf and his children, I willingly receive his blows that they
may not fall on others; I can do all that, and will do it to conciliate
conflicting interests, but I can do no more."

"Let me worship thee, O saint, thrice holy!" I exclaimed, kneeling at
her feet and kissing her robe, with which I wiped my tears. "But if he
kills you?" I cried.

She turned pale and said, lifting her eyes to heaven:

"God's will be done!"

"Do you know that the king said to your father, 'So that devil of a
Mortsauf is still living'?"

"A jest on the lips of the king," she said, "is a crime when repeated
here."

In spite of our precautions the count had tracked us; he now arrived,
bathed in perspiration, and sat down under a walnut-tree where the
countess had stopped to give me that rebuke. I began to talk about the
vintage; the count was silent, taking no notice of the dampness under
the tree. After a few insignificant remarks, interspersed with pauses
that were very significant, he complained of nausea and headache; but he
spoke gently, and did not appeal to our pity, or describe his sufferings
in his usual exaggerated way. We paid no attention to him. When we
reached the house, he said he felt worse and should go to bed; which he
did, quite naturally and with much less complaint than usual. We took
advantage of the respite and went down to our dear terrace accompanied
by Madeleine.

"Let us get that boat and go upon the river," said the countess after
we had made a few turns. "We might go and look at the fishing which is
going on to-day."

We went out by the little gate, found the punt, jumped into it and
were presently paddling up the Loire. Like three children amused with
trifles, we looked at the sedges along the banks and the blue and green
dragon-flies; the countess wondered perhaps that she was able to
enjoy such peaceful pleasures in the midst of her poignant griefs;
but Nature's calm, indifferent to our struggles, has a magic gift of
consolation. The tumults of a love full of restrained desires harmonize
with the wash of the water; the flowers that the hand of man has never
wilted are the voice of his secret dreams; the voluptuous swaying of the
boat vaguely responds to the thoughts that are floating in his soul.
We felt the languid influence of this