oldly
given at its tenderest spot, for which she seemed to aim. Moral
sufferings are not fixed quantities; they depend on the sensitiveness of
souls. The countess had trod each round of the ladder of pain; but, for
that very reason, the kindest of women was now as cruel as she was once
beneficent. I looked at Henriette, but she averted her head. I went to
my new room, which was pretty, white and green. Once there I burst into
tears. Henriette heard me as she entered with a bunch of flowers in her
hand.

"Henriette," I said, "will you never forgive a wrong that is indeed
excusable?"

"Do not call me Henriette," she said. "She no longer exists, poor soul;
but you may feel sure of Madame de Mortsauf, a devoted friend, who will
listen to you and who will love you. Felix, we will talk of these things
later. If you have still any tenderness for me let me grow accustomed
to seeing you. Whenever words will not rend my heart, if the day should
ever come when I recover courage, I will speak to you, but not till
then. Look at the valley," she said, pointing to the Indre, "it hurts
me, I love it still."

"Ah, perish England and all her women! I will send my resignation to the
king; I will live and die here, pardoned."

"No, love her; love that woman! Henriette is not. This is no play, and
you should know it."

She left the room, betraying by the tone of her last words the extent of
her wounds. I ran after her and held her back, saying, "Do you no longer
love me?"

"You have done me more harm than all my other troubles put together.
To-day I suffer less, therefore I love you less. Be kind; do not
increase my pain; if you suffer, remember that--I--live."

She withdrew her hand, which I held, cold, motionless, but moist, in
mine, and darted like an arrow through the corridor in which this scene
of actual tragedy took place.

At dinner, the count subjected me to a torture I had little expected.
"So the Marchioness of Dudley is not in Paris?" he said.

I blushed excessively, but answered, "No."

"She is not in Tours," continued the count.

"She is not divorced, and she can go back to England. Her husband would
be very glad if she would return to him," I said, eagerly.

"Has she children?" asked Madame de Mortsauf, in a changed voice.

"Two sons," I replied.

"Where are they?"

"In England, with their father."

"Come, Felix," interposed the count; "be frank; is she as handsome as
they say?"

"How can you ask him s